


Close to Home, So Far Away

by Mercury Starlight (WoolandWater)



Series: Remembrance [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Addiction relapse, Attempted Suicide, Bittersweet Ending, Brainwashing, Canon Semi-Compliant, Casual Sex, Crowley saved the books, Crowley's long nap, Denial, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, First Kiss, Forced Amnesia, Gaslighting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mania, Nightmares, Other, Protective!Aziraphale, Protective!Crowley, Psychological Torture, Psychosis, Self-Harm, Sleep Deprivation, Stranger Sex, Suicidal Ideation, The Blitz, Trauma, Trauma Recovery, Whump, alternative path to Armageddon, attempted self-discorporation, canon-divergent, dissociative sex, drug overdose, eventual happy-ish ending, forced semi-mortality, forced sobriety, get-together, hedonist!Aziraphale, homophobia parallels, implied minor character death, implied sex, major angst, minor psychosis, non-binary!Beelzebub, physical violence, psychological/spiritual rape (non-sexual), psychotic episode, semi-sympathetic villain portrayal, suicidal depression, violent language describing metaphysical injury, what if their punishment was forgetting each other?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19430191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoolandWater/pseuds/Mercury%20Starlight
Summary: In 1941, Crowley saves Aziraphale's books, along with his corporeal form. That night, Aziraphale realizes he's done pretending he's not in love. But love between an angel and a demon flies in the face of the Status Quo, and neither Heaven nor Hell will stand for such a threat to their authority. To make an example of them, Gabriel and Beelzebub collaborate on a punishment much harsher than mere execution.What happens when Crowley and Aziraphale are allowed to keep their lives, but not their memories?Based on the meme/concept, "What if their punishment was forgetting each other?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **July 14, 2019:** Updated the tags and put them in alphabetical order for readability.  
> I've started using [wanna-b-poet31](https://wanna-b-poet31.tumblr.com/)'s amazing meta essays on trauma and the Good Omens universe as research to better inform my writing and characterization as this story goes forward. Read them, they're amazing! ([Here's a link to some!](https://wanna-b-poet31.tumblr.com/tagged/thanks-for-coming-to-my-ted-talk))
> 
> This story takes the book concept of Crowley's century-long nap and condenses it a bit. It also, as the tags suggest, presupposes that Aziraphale enjoys many earthly delights, not just food. 
> 
> The title is a lyric from Enya's _Evening Falls_ , from the album _Watermark_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/13/2020: Minor proofreading fixes & rewording.

#### London, 1941, Amid the Rubble of a Very Recently Bombed Church

"Little demonic miracle of my own," Crowley said casually, handing off the bag and sauntering past the stunned angel, "Lift home?"

Aziraphale could only stare at him in mute wonder. Or rather, in wonder alongside a great deal more than that. He thought and felt so many different things at once, he wasn't sure where to begin sorting any of it out.

* * *

When Aziraphale walked away that day in St. James' Park, 1862, he didn't know it would be the last time he would see Crowley for 80 years. He didn't know how much he would worry, how long he would search for him, terrified that his refusing to procure so dangerous a substance (for a demon so clearly in a bad way) had driven him to do something stupid, something irreversible, something _final_. He didn't know how much he would regret the last thing he'd said, wish he could take it back. How often he'd look across the table of a fine restaurant and _feel_ Crowley's absence.

He didn't know how empty and cold and _sad_ his life would become in the 20 years between losing him and finding secret solace in the embrace of London's counter-culture, its writers and painters and thinkers. He didn't know how conflicted that whole period would feel, engaging in delights of the flesh forbidden by both Heaven and Earth, hiding his behavior from both authorities, suppressing all the while that there was someone else he'd rather be exploring those particular pleasures with. He didn't know how hard losing that life would be, once it was gone and the crushing, stark reality of his loneliness returned.

Crowley had said he didn't need him, and even in the moment, Aziraphale knew it wasn't true. He'd known for centuries. Perhaps he _was_ an idiot, but not an unobservant one. He knew the demon loved him, as much as a demon could love, which Aziraphale was sure couldn't possibly be very much. A part of him knew how much he wished, in his secret heart, that the love could be true, that they could share in it. That they could be allowed to love. Because Crowley needed him, and for a long time, perhaps for just as long, he needed Crowley. For centuries now, in that secret heart, the one he didn't dare expose to any soul (even his own, most of the time), a tiny, meek voice whispered, ' _I love him. I shall love him through the end of eternity._ '

The demon claimed he didn't need the angel, and the angel knew it was a lie. Yet his own stubborn, frightened, cautious nature made him lie right back. Claim that it was mutual. That such a thing was obvious. But it was only another lie, a horrible, vicious lie, the sort angels shouldn't be able to tell. He needed him _so very badly_. He didn't know just how much he needed him until he was well and truly gone.

He didn't know. He couldn't allow himself to know. So he walked away.

So when he saw him again, hot-footing down the aisle of that church, the silly fool, he didn't know what to do, how else to react other than the way he had, which was to say, hardly at all. He didn't know how to process that the demon Crowley had just sauntered back into his life like he always had, as if nothing had transpired, as if he hadn't vanished off the face of the Earth for a near-century. This separation wasn't even very long, in the scheme of it. They'd gone longer between meetings, though it had been rather a while. For a ~~relation-~~ ~~friend-~~ acquaintanceship that spanned 6000 years, 80 was a blip, a heartbeat. But it had been the longest 80 years of Aziraphale's long life.

And then the bomb dropped, and Crowley saved his books, and the whisper of Aziraphale's secret heart became a shout. It began to shout so loudly, in fact, that he could no longer pretend he didn't hear it.

* * *

"…Angel? You coming?"

Aziraphale jumped, startled out of his reverie, staring after Crowley as he meandered away.

"Oh, er, yes!" He hurried to catch up, toward what appeared to be Crowley's car (a lovely thing, was that one of those Bantly models?), trying not to trip over hunks of rubble.

They drove to the shop in silence. Crowley was quiet, but Aziraphale couldn't begin to imagine why. He was usually so talkative, it was odd. But Aziraphale himself was frightened and overwhelmed by the insistent, unending mantra of the little voice drowning out nearly every other thought. So he sat quietly, clutching the bag of rescued books on his lap, trying to pretend that he wasn't in the middle of a serious identity crisis.

Crowley pulled over and the car stopped, idling. They sat there, semi-awkwardly, for either a few seconds or a thousand years. Crowley looked at him quizzically.

"So…Right place, yes? It is your shop, isn't it? Mr. A. Z. Fell, Purveyor of Fine Literary Antiquities?"

"Oh! Yes, yes, this is me, thank you." He reached for the door handle, but hesitated, "…Er, Crowley…would you like to…ah…" he hesitated further, then steeled himself and barreled ahead, "…come in? Maybe have a drink?"

The car shut off immediately.

"Absolutely, yes, thought you'd never ask, assumed you wouldn't ask, actually, yeah, let's…let's."

Crowley sounded nervous. He couldn't possibly be as nervous as Aziraphale felt in that moment. Though the voice was fading, his constant shield of denial beginning to shroud him yet again, it echoed inside him. They went in, nerves and all. Crowley had a quick look around, made some appropriately impressed noises. Aziraphale showed him to the back room. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that they were being watched, and ushered him far away from the front windows as soon as possible.1 Inviting Crowley in had been an impulsive, last-minute decision. But now he was quite paranoid at the idea of being caught with a demon in his chambers, as it were.

The little voice was finally quiet, his secret heart safely hidden from himself once more. He tried his best to forget he'd ever heard anything at all.

He opened a bottle of red and started pouring. Crowley sat on the sofa and gladly took a glass. Aziraphale joined him, sitting not quite as far away as he could. After a few minutes of drinking, allowing the silence to become something approaching comfortable, Crowley spoke up.

"This really is something, you know. You've got quite a collection going, how many first editions?"

"Oh, most of them, actually. You know me, I've been gathering them for centuries now. And around 1870 or so I thought, 'You've got enough of them, why not open a shop?' And here we are."

"Huh. I'm surprised you do any business, really. I can't quite picture you letting any of them go."

"Ah…well…honestly, I try not to if I can help it."

Crowley smiled knowingly and pointed at him, "There he is. _That's_ the Aziraphale I know."

Aziraphale sipped his wine, looked pensively into his glass.

"…Where _were_ you?" he said, quite suddenly, without realizing he was going to.

Crowley's smile faded a bit, though he was clearly trying to keep it on, "…Oh, nowhere special, I was just…y'know…" he sighed, his shoulders sagged, "I overslept."

"I'm sorry, you _what_?"

"I overslept! After…after I saw you last, I was feeling a bit out-of-sorts, so I decided to take a good, long nap. I really only intended to sleep five, maybe ten years, and I just…I overslept, all right? It happens!"

"…But if you were only asleep, why couldn't I find you?"

"Angel, do you honestly think I'd allow myself to sleep _anywhere_ that wasn't warded to Hell and back against Celestial interference? I was at _home_ , I wasn't _findable_ , certainly not by you."

"…Oh."

Aziraphale was quiet for a long time. They continued to drink. The bottle ran dry. It refilled, and neither was even sure which of them did it. They began draining it again, immediately.

"…When did you wake up?"

It was Crowley's turn for long, pensive silence. He looked down at the floor and muttered something into his shoes.

"What was that?"

"1934," he said, quite a bit louder, and quite a bit more defensive.

Aziraphale found himself seething and he didn't even know why. What did it matter how long the demon had been awake, what difference did it make?

"And you didn't think to drop a line, perhaps," he heard himself say anyway, "over the next _seven years_?"

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His glass refilled and he swallowed it down in a gulp.

"…I wasn't sure…" he stopped, looked back at his shoes.

"Sure of _what_?"Aziraphale was baffled by his own anger, but it seemed to be the safest thing to feel in the moment. Try as he might to ignore it, his secret heart was making itself known again.

"I didn't know if you wanted to see me, all right? We didn't exactly part on the best of terms. I thought you might still be angry, which doesn't seem too off the mark, really."

"I'm _angry_ because…well I don't know why I'm angry." Another lie. How many more falsehoods could he conceivably get away with? "…All right, I do! You _blindside_ me with quite possibly the most _ludicrous_ demand you've _ever_ made of me, I quite _sensibly_ refuse to procure the most dangerous _possible_ substance for you to _ever_ come into contact with, and then you _vanish_ on me within a matter of _months_! Do you know how awfully frightening that was for me? I was convinced you'd…you'd…"

Crowley smiled at him then, which inspired several conflicting emotions at once.

"You were _worried_ about me!"

"No! …Yes. Of _course_ I was worried about you! You'd just requested a weapon of total demonic destruction, I was concerned for your well-being! And you just left, without any warning, I thought at least you'd…"

"You _missed_ me! Not even gone for a century and you were missing me like anything!"

"No, I…all right. All right! I suppose I did."

"Say it, 'I missed you, Crowley.' Come on, then," The demon inched closer to him, grin widening.

"I…" Aziraphale was trying to avoid looking at him, but eventually he glanced up, and the glance became a longer, pleading gaze, full of fear and sadness, "Crowley, I missed you _so much_."

Crowley's smile faded. This wasn't a fun game anymore, not with the look the angel was giving him, like he was ready to burst into tears.

"I searched for years. _Everywhere_ ," Aziraphale couldn't stop the words from tumbling out, no matter how much he wanted to just shut up, "I looked, and I waited, and you were _nowhere_ , you- And I thought it was my _fault_! We quarreled like that, and I said that _awful_ thing to you, and then you were _gone_ and I thought- I thought you-"

"Hey," Crowley said, sliding right next to the nearly hyperventilating Aziraphale and taking his hand, "Slow down, angel. Deep breaths, yeah?"

Aziraphale stopped talking, shocked into silence by the sudden contact. They didn't touch often, and the way Crowley was holding his hand, cradling it so gently in both of his, was so…achingly intimate. A tear rolled down his cheek. Crowley watched it fall, and he finally heard what the angel had been trying to tell him.

"You thought I was dead."

"…I thought I'd _killed_ you," Aziraphale said in a strained whisper, desperately trying to keep even a bit of his composure. "I'd refused to help you, I thought was trying to save you, and then I feared I'd killed you all the same. I feared I'd…driven you to it."

Aziraphale started to cry. Immediately, Crowley put aside any pretense of 'big, bad heartless demon' he might still have been projecting. He put his arms around the angel and pulled him close. If anything, the gesture only intensified Aziraphale's tears. Such tenderness and care in Crowley's embrace, one he'd longed to be held in for so long now. He chose not to resist, sank deeper in, accepted his comfort.

"Oh, angel, I'm so sorry," Crowley murmured, "I'm _so_ sorry. I didn't know, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. It's all right, I'm right here, I'm fine."

Aziraphale's tears slowed. Crowley kept holding him, seemingly reluctant to let go now that this barrier had been breached. Aziraphale found he didn't mind in the slightest.

"Don't ever, _ever_ leave me like that again."

It slipped out. He hadn't meant to say it, not like that, not so plainly. But it came out that way all the same, nothing to be done about it now.

"…Aziraphale…did you just…?"

Aziraphale pulled away, but only a bit. Not enough to pull out of those arms, still wrapped around him so tightly. Only so his face was even with Crowley's. He reached up and slowly removed the demon's glasses, set them aside, revealing slitted yellow eyes, dilated and hazy with drink, but _filled to the utter brim with love_. It was so obvious, so plain, so _real_. He hadn't allowed himself to see it before, convinced himself whatever he'd been feeling from him all this time was only some pale, demonic facsimile. But there was no mistaking it, no hiding from the bare truth of that loving expression. The voice of his secret heart called out in response, demanding to be heard, to be met. It was all too much.

Aziraphale kissed him. It wasn't the cautious, hesitant kiss he might have given him at a different moment, a moment of weakness given a decade, or four, or thirty. No, in this moment it was strong and sure. A kiss that said he was through with caution. A kiss that said he needed this, now, and if 'damn the consequences' turned out to be literal, so be it.

Crowley gasped, held his breath a moment. But after a brief, stunned stillness, Crowley kissed back. He was the hesitant one now. His hand tentatively cupped the angel's cheek, as though he were afraid to break him. Aziraphale wrapped a hand around the back of Crowley's neck, laced his fingers through his hair, and Crowley moaned softly in response. They kissed with more passion, more urgency. Suddenly, Crowley pulled away and searched Aziraphale's face, his own a mask of caution.

"You're absolutely sure?" he asked, though clearly afraid of the answer, "You want this? This isn't the wine, or-?"

Aziraphale shook his head, stroked his fingertips along Crowley's cheek, "I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you, right now."

"Good," Crowley said, and claimed his mouth again, without another thought.

The kiss was endless, eternal. The longer it lasted, the less either felt they might ever be able to pull away again.

They shouldn't be able to do this without pain, Aziraphale realized. This was not supposed to be possible, this sort of long-term closeness between divine and infernal flesh. They were opposing forces, dark and light, fire and water, any prolonged touch of one's skin against the other's should create a negative reaction, burn them both. It went against everything he knew to be true, everything he'd ever been told. And yet, this was the sheer opposite of pain. It was _euphoria_. It was the feel of an old book's pages beneath one's fingers, the sweet, smooth passage of a perfectly prepared cup of tea down one's throat, the warmth of the sun on one's skin on a breezy summer afternoon. It was emotional and spiritual—but also visceral and _carnal_ , so far beyond anything he'd ever felt in a mere kiss before.

 _Is this how it feels to kiss someone you truly love?_ He wondered. _Or is it only how it feels for me to kiss him?_

They were lying on the sofa now, Aziraphale pressing Crowley against the arm. And Aziraphale realized that Crowley was whimpering. Not moaning, no lustful, passionate groans. This was a _whimper_ , the sound of someone not in pain or fear, but in such a state of utter arousal that they could barely handle it. He sounded rather like someone who hadn't done this very much—or at all.

Aziraphale pulled back, enjoyed the frustrated groan that tore itself from Crowley's throat, pleasure and disappointment in equal measure. He watched in mild amusement as the demon trembled beneath him, gazed at him through a lustful haze.

"My dear," Aziraphale said gently, with the hint of a tease, "You _have_ done this sort of thing before, haven't you?"

Crowley laughed, a gleeful, if shaky, giggle, " _Countless_ times, angel, I _swear_! But I wasn't expecting…" he laughed again, "I didn't realize _you_ had! Just what have you been _up to_ while I was away?"

Aziraphale laughed, knowing and sensual, "Oh, I believe I have a few stories to tell. Though I didn't have anyone to tell them to until now."

"I'd be very interested to hear about it," Crowley said, pulling at Aziraphale's lapels, "Later."

Aziraphale pulled his coat off and flung it over the back of the sofa. He pushed Crowley's off his shoulders as their lips met, and he wasn't sure where it went after that—perhaps Crowley disappeared it? No matter, it was inconsequential. The only thing occupying his mind at the moment was the flood of sensation, this unending moment, the song of joy pouring forth from his not-so-secret heart. Crowley's lips on his own, Crowley's hair between his fingers, Crowley's hand along his jaw, Crowley's other hand fumbling with each of their belts, Crowley's arousal pressing into his thigh.

Aziraphale smiled into the kiss, an eager, mischievous grin. In the rare, fleeting fantasies he'd allowed himself about this potential moment, he'd always thought it would be so much more…tender? Romantic? Slow? The reality was nothing close. This was raw, urgent, a frenzied lust exploding from the both of them, feeding on itself. But it was no matter, there would be time enough for romance. Right now there was only need, only the two of them releasing millennia of repressed, stifled tension of all sorts, sexual, emotional, spiritual.

Right now there was only Crowley. Nothing else in the entire Cosmos mattered at all.

* * *

They made it to the upstairs loft, eventually. They lay on their sides, on the tiny, seldom-used bed, staring at each other's faces as though they'd never seen each other before. And they hadn't, not like this, not wearing the satisfied, dopey smiles of new lovers basking in fresh afterglow. Crowley traced his hand down Aziraphale's cheek, and the angel kissed his palm.

"I never thought…" Crowley began, but never finished. Aziraphale nodded anyway.

"I know, my dear. Neither did I, not really. But tonight I…I don't know. I think I finally realized that a world without you near me isn't one worth living in, anyway."

Crowley kissed him, gentle and tender. He stroked the back of his neck with his thumb, rested foreheads. But then he frowned, for the first time in hours.

"If we're caught…"

"Shush," Aziraphale whispered, and kissed him again, "That's tomorrow's worry."

Crowley breathed a sardonic laugh, "I've never known you to put off worrying, angel."

"We knew what we were getting into when we began. What's done is done, it's a bit late to start worrying now."

"But," Crowley's whisper was barely a sound at all. His eyes held a fear like nothing Aziraphale had ever seen in them before, "If you Fall…"

Aziraphale shook his head, "If I didn't Fall after the first time, I doubt anything beyond it makes any difference."

"Doubt certainly never did me any favors," Crowley muttered.

"Hmm, I always thought my healthy capacity for doubt was something you took as a positive."

Aziraphale was teasing, but Crowley's face remained deathly serious.

"Look, I know you're not keen on badmouthing Upstairs, but you must know the sort of things they could do to you if they knew. Angels have fallen for less, _so much less_. We were caught up in the heat of the moment, I get that, but…we shouldn't…I'm…I'm no good for you, angel."

Aziraphale's face turned stern. He wasn't about to let Crowley sink into one of his _moods_ right now.

"Anthony Crowley, I am not some naive, pretty young thing you've tempted home for the evening. I am more than equipped to make my own decisions. And I was quite serious before, this wasn't a decision I made lightly. For nearly 6 millennia now, I've been forced to choose between you and Heaven's Command, and tonight I decided on you, and I rather think that makes the choice quite final. Why are you _looking_ at me like that?"

Crowley was watching him in awe, not remotely indicating that he'd been listening at all.

"You called me Anthony."

"Well of course I did, you only just told me this evening, there's nothing the matter with my—"

Crowley cut him off with a massive kiss, occasionally interrupted by laughter. He rolled them until he was atop the now also-laughing angel. He gazed down at him, his expression half-amusement, half-worry, all adoration.

"I love you, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale smiled, relieved to have successfully pulled the demon out of his spiral, "And I love you. More than I ever realized."

Crowley's expression drifted further toward worry. Aziraphale stroked his temple, rested a reassuring hand on the back of his neck, idly twined his fingers through his hair.

"Don't look so concerned. I think we'll be all right if we keep a low enough profile. You're always saying they don't check up enough, and you're quite right. Neither side has ever much cared what we were up to as long as the paperwork was in order. Perhaps we'll simply…allow ourselves to slip through the cracks."

Crowley was back to a full frown, but it was more determination than fear, "I won't let them hurt you. And I won't let you Fall."

"I know, my dear," Aziraphale said, knowing full well that if the situation became dire enough, there was absolutely nothing either of them could do to prevent either outcome,2 "And I won't let them hurt you, either. We'll protect each other. We always have, really. Now stop all that brooding and come here."

He pulled Crowley toward him, a meaningful look on his face, and Crowley laughed.

"Again?"

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, "Are you tired, my dear?"

Crowley kissed him thoroughly, leaned to whisper in his ear.

"Don't be stupid, angel, demons don't get tired."

He proved it, then. A few times.

* * *

1\. This was entirely irrational, he knew. Heaven could see them just as easily inside as out. But there was something to be said for a false sense of security. [Back]

2\. He was sure Crowley knew it, too. But he also knew these were the sort of grand, impossible promises one tended to make after a night of lovemaking. And he wasn't any more immune than the average human to the warm glow that filled his soul when he heard them. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, buckle up folks. This chapter is literally as fluffy, happy, and safe as this fic is going to get. I hope you enjoyed it, because it is all downhill from here. (I mean, don't worry too much, there's a nice hurt/comfort cushion at the bottom of this pain/angst slide. But...it's a long slide.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.
> 
> 02/13/2020: Minor proofreading fixes and rewording.

#### The Ethereal Plane, A Few Years Later

In Heaven's main administrative office, in a small, secluded room behind several locked doors, there is an object that, were a human capable of viewing it without exploding, would look like a phone.

No one is supposed to know the phone exists. The phone is dark, ominously so, devoid of anything approaching holiness. The phone consists of only a receiver and a cradle, no need for numbers or dials: it only goes to one place. The phone has been used exactly three times since the formation of the Earth. It is very much a "For Emergencies Only" means of communication with The Other Side.1

Today, the Archangel Gabriel walked confidently into the room and picked up the phone without hesitation.

* * *

In Hell's main administrative office, in a filthy, disused corner of some nondescript room where any unsuspecting demon could happen upon it, there is a similar object. This phone is bright, glowing, diffusing the air around it of darkness and damp. Demons avoid the whole room, if they can. Getting too close to the phone is extremely uncomfortable, bordering on dangerous. Only Dukes, Princes and the Father of Lies Himself are able to touch the thing without an eon of regretting it.

Today, it just so happened one of Beelzebub's minions was passing by the room when the phone began to ring.

* * *

"Thiz had better be extremely important."

"This is the Archangel Gabriel, Chief Guardian of Paradise, Messenger of Heaven, and Hand of the Lord Almighty (hallowed be Her name). To whom am I speaking?"

Beelzebub rolled their eyes and recited the formal greeting in a quick, bored monotone, "Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, Lord of Fliez, and Hand of Lucifer, Emperor of Hell (may he reign in unending terror), _what do you want_?"

"We have a problem."

" _We_?"

"Tell me something, when's the last time you heard from that Earth operative of yours, the serpent, Crawly or whatever?"

"Crowley," Beelzebub automatically corrected,2 "Why?"

"One of our own operatives appears to have gone rogue. He missed his last debrief, and now he's stopped answering calls. We weren't sure what to make of it, he's always been a bit…eccentric, but he's typically very devoted to his job. When we looked into it, we found something…disturbing."

"Now you mention it, Crowley missed hiz last uh-" there was a pause as Beelzebub did a mental cross reference of their records, "Thirteen check-inzz." 

"Seriously?"

"We're not too bothered about it, he'z missed them before, alwayz turnz up in the end. What's it to do with yourz? Don't tell me you opened thiz line just to report a fallen angel, there'z an entire department—"

"No. No, not…" Gabriel sighed, "Not exactly."

There was a pause. Beelzebub tapped their foot impatiently.

"Care to elaborate?"

"I need to show you something, and you're not going to like it," Gabriel said, slipping some papers into a slot in the wall next to the phone, "Really, prepare yourself, it's…quite shocking."

Beelzebub rolled their eyes and pulled the papers from the wall at their end. The papers were photographs, a technology both sides were still getting used to, but which Above had begun using with increasing frequency.3

They flipped through the pictures nonchalantly, "I assure you, there'z nothing one of _your kind_ could show me that—" They stopped dead when they realized what they were seeing.

The first was fairly innocuous. It showed Crowley's Bentley, parked outside some sort of shop. Crowley was leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for someone.

The next showed the someone Crowley was waiting for, a creature Beelzebub instantly recognized as an angel, despite its human appearance. It appeared to be the angel Aziraphale, the one Crowley often referred to as his 'rival'. He'd bragged rather constantly over the past several millennia about impeding this angel's divine influence. Crowley was smiling in this picture. Not a devious smile. Not a smile that betrayed evil intent. No this smile was…affectionate. There was _love_ in that smile, so unnatural on any _normal_ demon's face, yet so natural on Crowley's. Beelzebub felt the bile begin to rise in their throat.

The third showed the two of them entering the shop. The angel was most of the way through the door. Crowley was behind him, hand resting comfortably on the back of the angel's neck. Beelzebub's stomach churned, their face twisted in revulsion and rage.

The last was a much closer angle, taken up against the window, at a crack in the closed shutters. Crowley and the angel stood inside, extremely close together. They held each other, the angel's arms wrapped around Crowley's waist, Crowley's hands cradling the angel's face, their mouths pressed close together.

The sound that emitted from Beelzebub was not at all pleasant. It could best be likened to a buzzing growl, ground out from between rusted gears. A thoroughly demonic, altogether inhuman noise. The sound was like nails on a chalkboard to Celestial ears and Gabriel held the phone away until the demon stopped making it.

"Dizzzzzzzgusting!" Beelzebub said eventually, "They're…they're…"

"Told you," Gabriel's grim smirk was audible and Beelzebub grimaced.

"How long haz thiz been going on?"

"Ah. We're not exactly sure. Are you aware of how long they've been in general contact?"

"…I…we…yes," Beelzebub tried to shake the disturbing, unnatural image of an angel and demon in an intimate embrace from their mind, "We were led to underztand they'd spent mozt of their time on Earth thwarting each other."

"Yes, well, ours fed us a similar line. You should audit your files. We've uncovered a number of…inconsistencies on our end as far as this…renegade is concerned. I don't doubt you'll find the same."

"How…how iz thiz even pozzible? You're telling me theze two have been… _carrying on_ for Satan-knowz how long, and the angel hazn't _Fallen_? How?! They shouldn't even be able to…augh, I can't keep picturing it, I'm going to be sick."

" _That_ , I don't suppose I need to tell you, is exactly why this information is highly classified. I'm talking Need-To-Know-Only access, here."

"Yeah, I figured that part out, glow-wingzzz," they glowered harder than ever, "No good letting something like thiz get out, dizzent in the rankz would be the least of our problemz."

"Exactly. But right now, the biggest problem is deciding what to do with them."

"How iz _that_ a problem? The Law iz pretty clear on thiz sort of thing. High treazzon, fraternizzzation with the enemy, treazzzzonous fornica— Ugh," Beelzebub shuddered, "They're all Extinctable offensez. Simple enough, and good riddanze."

"Actually…we don't know that we want to jump directly to Extinction in this case."

"Oh, of courze, the choir boy doezzzn't want to get hiz handzzz dirty-"

"Look, I find it as repulsive as you do, believe me, but we're reluctant to go Extincting an otherwise valuable, long-term asset over a slight…"

"Perversion?" Beelzebub suggested, "Degeneracy? Affront to all Powerz That Be, and to the Great Plan, Itzzzelf?"

" _Lapse in judgment_ ," Gabriel finished, "He's still a good agent, overall. And from what we hear, so is yours."

"Hmm, I dunno," Beelzebub said, reluctantly, "Further down seemz to think so, anyway."

"Our investigators determined that ours might be totally salvageable if he isn't being…compromised."

"What are you suggezzting, exactly?"

"We'd like to formally propose a parley to discuss this matter further. We think we can come to a solution that will benefit us all without sacrificing…appropriate disciplinary action."

"Fine," Beelzebub said in a tone which clearly translated to, ' _It's not fine at all, actually, but I don't have the authority to dismiss it out of hand, so go ahead and have your stupid parley, have a whole summit if you want, see if I care._ '

Beelzebub hung up without another word, leaving Gabriel to listen to dead air for a few seconds before hanging up himself, brushing off his hands, and leaving the room with a smug, satisfied smile on his face.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

1\. As each side was concerned with who was ahead at any given time, they used these communications to settle especially contentious score disputes. The first was to decide whether the Celtic migration was a win for Above or Below, given the explosion in cultural exchange and human growth, combined with the horrible atrocities involved in Viking conquest. The second was to determine who, exactly, had authorized the start of the Crusades, which began a full 60 years ahead of schedule, and with 23% more civilian casualties than initially planned. The third was to ascertain the origins of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, which nobody saw coming at all and which, within a century of its global spread, managed to thoroughly horrify both sides (Heaven was appalled at the cruel, barbaric practices without proper Celestial authority, while Hell was offended that the humans were stealing their thunder).

It was eventually determined that humans were just Like That, and from around the late-1700s on, the only major human events that counted toward the score were those they could trace directly back to a specific operative or planned initiative. [Back]

2\. Beelzebub may have been a demon, and they certainly held no fondness for Crowley, but dead-naming somebody like that was just rude. They were almost certain the Archangel had done it on purpose. [Back]

3\. The thing about supernatural cameras was, they were far beyond any technology humans would come up with for another hundred years. This made it even more difficult for Hell's administration to adopt, as they'd just incorporated the lithograph and printing press into their business operations during the last couple of Earth decades. They would have quite a struggle convincing demons who objected to any form of picture-making as "creativity" (and therefore highly immoral) to begin using something which produced images in a near-instant. [Back]

* * *

#### London, Summer 1946

Aziraphale had not Fallen, not after five years of semi-cohabitation with a creature he should not even have been able to comfortably touch. A creature he touched very comfortably indeed, rather frequently. And knowing this unlocked a complacency in the both of them. It opened the door to the possibility that perhaps everything they knew to be true was wrong. That they might be able to divorce themselves from their respective sides after all. Just slip through the cracks and let the Powers That Be forget about them. They didn't need Heaven or Hell—they were on their own side, now.

Tonight, they had dined at the Ritz. They had laughed and joked, and discretely laced their fingers under the table. They took a long, leisurely walk to and from the restaurant, rather than take the Bentley (which had begun making some very odd noises lately, almost something like music, but like no music either had ever heard before).

Now, they lounged on Aziraphale's sofa, Crowley's head in his angel's lap, angelic fingers tracing through the hair he'd decided to grow out a bit. Aziraphale was reading Wilde to him, and he loved it when Aziraphale read Wilde because he put so much of himself into those lush, golden words. This was true Paradise, make no mistake. Crowley had found his way back to the Garden and it was in Aziraphale's arms.

Aziraphale couldn't be more content. Sharing his one true passion with his one true love, on a quiet, warm summer evening—how could that possibly compare with Heaven's sterile, stifling, oppressive atmosphere, its impossible demands? No, the only Heaven he sought now was here, engrossed in a book, Crowley's head nestled comfortably against his belly.

This was the state they were in—content, unsuspecting, vulnerable—when the authorities came for them. The intruders muffled the bell above the door, made no sound as they searched the front room. But as they approached the back, Crowley sat up sharply, nose in the air.

"What?" Aziraphale said, puzzled.

"Something's not—" Crowley began, but the door was already open.

They didn't have time to move further apart, and it wouldn't have mattered in the slightest if they had. They were alone together, in a secluded room, in the middle of the night, candlelight glowing through the half-emptied champagne flutes on the table, Aziraphale without a suit jacket, Crowley without a shirt at all. It was a scene nearly as old as humanity itself—the perfect tableau of an illicit affair. They were well and truly discovered, and in an instant the extent of their naivety, their foolish hubris, became abundantly, terribly clear.

A crowd surrounded them before they could even process what was happening. Without a word, Crowley's people grabbed him, tore him away, began binding him. Aziraphale leaped to his feet, astonished and, for a few moments, mute. Crowley struggled and nearly managed to slip out of at least one demon's grasp before the shackles sealed around his wrists. Then he didn't resist. He couldn't. The bindings were Celestial, designed to render demons powerless, and burn him terribly if he struggled. He had no hope of escape.

"Fly, angel!" Crowley managed to cry before they gagged him, "GO!"

But Aziraphale was frozen in shock and horror, managing only a small, confused, "Crowley?" before his own people got to him.

Crowley watched, helpless, as the angels at Aziraphale's side bound him with Infernal rope, his eyes still wide in shock and terror.

"No! Unhand me! No, NO _CROWLEY_!!" The angels gagged him. He continued to shout for his love, his voice muffled but raw behind his gag. He struggled against his bindings and screamed in surprised pain. He went limp and started to cry.

Crowley saw the angel on Aziraphale's left nod at the demon holding Crowley's right arm.4

 _They're working together._ Crowley thought in a panic, as the demons at his arms dragged him through the door, out of sight, down to Hell. _Above and Below. They conspired to break us apart, the hypocritical bastards, they're working together._

Aziraphale's mournful, pained sobs were the last thing Crowley heard before passing through the worlds.

 _Don't hurt him._ He prayed, though it was literally painful to do so, and though he was sure no one was listening. _I know I've tainted him, but that was my doing, not his. He's Your most devoted creature, he's the best of all of them, You've seen that. I know my life was forfeit eons ago, I don't care what happens to me. Do whatever You want with me, but please, I'm begging You. Please, please don't hurt him._

Aziraphale closed his eyes once Crowley was out of sight. The ropes seemed to drain his energy and he felt so very tired. The angels lifted him, preparing to ascend. The movement jostled the ropes at his wrists, pressing them against his flesh, and he cried out again. His captors were silent, as they had been all along, and he realized they'd likely been instructed not to speak to him.

 _Lord forgive them._ He prayed, sure that after all he'd been through, all he'd done and survived, he could not possibly be forsaken now. _They could never have understood us. They didn't know we were possible. And…I know he has Fallen out of Your Grace, but I beg of You, my Lord, please protect him. Just this once? You know his heart, You know he's capable of so much Good. Please don't punish him for my indiscretions. All of this was my fault. Please, please don't hurt him._

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, A Few Hours Later

The trials were held concurrently. Neither would remember their trial, and that was, perhaps, some small mercy.

Crowley wouldn't remember the torture they subjected him to beforehand, interrogating him in front of an audience of eager onlookers. He wouldn't remember putting on a brave, stoic face, refusing to allow the crowd the slightest bit of joy in his pain.

Aziraphale wouldn't remember trying to reason with them, making a case for Love with a capital 'L' as being wholly incompatible with Sin, pointing out that he hadn't Fallen after all, and that must mean _something_. He wouldn't remember how proud he felt in that moment, retaining his dignity in the face of this affront to everything he held dear.

The trials were, of course, a complete farce. The verdicts were predetermined, the sentences already prepared. Still, each side went through the motions, keeping up appearances, making a show of it. It was all for the benefit of the onlookers, anyway; neither of the accused would remember a word.

"You have been found Guilty," the Courts said, each in Their own sanctums, "Of Traitorous Conspiracy, Gross Fraternization, Treasonous Fornication, and Violation of the Laws of Nature. Each of these crimes is punishable by Extinction."

"However," Gabriel said, through an insincere and vicious smile, "This Court has taken into account your years of faithful service. Given your exemplary record outside of this unfortunate…deviancy…you shall be shown Mercy and allowed to live."

"Thing iz," Beelzebub said, their expression an impressive mixture of disdain, disgust, and utter glee, "Extinction'z far too good for you, you perverted angel-fucker. Too clean, too quick. Better to be made an example of, show the otherzz what thiz sort of thing leadzz to."

Both concluded, "You are hereby sentenced, therefore, to undergo Full Memorial Evulsion of your co-conspirator."

Crowley wouldn't remember his resolve shattering in an instant, breaking down into complete hysteria, his anguished cries echoing through the Halls of Hell.

Aziraphale wouldn't remember the pitiful begging, groveling on his hands and knees before the impassive wall of Archangels, voice ragged with sobs.

"Not that! _Not that_! Kill me, damn me, cast me out, take every power I possess, but please, I beg you, don't take him from me, _not like this_!"

 _Memorial Evulsion_ , they called it. An archaic, bureaucratic, sanitized way to say, 'Forcible extraction of pieces of a soul in order to induce targeted amnesia.' Which is a more polite way of saying, 'Ripping your memories out until you're left with only the ones we deem acceptable.'

It was part of the punishment the Fallen received, the way they were forced to forget the most pleasant parts of their time Before. The Fallen could remember the procedure itself, it was an integral part of the punishment.5 This would be the second time Crowley was forced to submit to this invasion, this violation so far beyond mere physical injury. But the first had been Partial; this would be Full. Complete. This wouldn't be like Falling, carrying with him a trace of remembrance of his former life, just enough to be a constant drip-torture of fleeting memory straddling nostalgia and grief. No. There would be nothing left, no hint of familiarity, no memory of a memory, no longing for what was, no knowledge or recognition of any kind. There would be no trace of Aziraphale left anywhere in his conscious mind, and as much of the subconscious as they could reach would be _scraped away entirely_ and forced to form anew.

It would utterly break them both, they knew. They would be torn apart and put back together wrong and incomplete. They would never be the same. And they would not even remember why.

* * *

"Such a shame," Beelzebub said, "That you won't be able to remember how much thiz iz going to _hurt_."

It began. It did hurt. A lot. So much more than he remembered. He could feel it starting, the forgetting, and despite its spiritual nature the feeling was a physical, tangible thing. 6000 years of memories, nearly the entirety of his life as a demon, sorted through and shattered. Piece by piece, half of his existence was torn away in ragged chunks. Crowley screamed anew, agony and sorrow and hatred and rage. His wings sprung from his back, limbs flailing, the shock threatening to tear him apart entirely. His legs gave out and then he was on his stomach, convulsing, his face pressed into the filthy ground. He could dimly hear the excited cheers and laughter and jeering of the crowd he'd so wanted to disappoint. He hated the utter indignity of it all, but he had no control over himself. He was still in human form, he thought, but he felt no limbs anymore. No arms, no legs, no wings, no body at all. His very being had become nothing but searing, cold, deep, wrenching pain.

He was losing him. He was losing his smile, his eyes, his laughter, his name. He shut his eyes, tried hard to see his… _Az…Aziraphale's_ …face, keep hold of it as long as he could.

"I love you," the words tumbled out of him, through gasping sobs, "I love you, I love you, I love you…" He said it over and over, until it was more sound than words, until he didn't know why he was saying it. Until he didn't know who he meant. Until he didn't know what was happening. Until he didn't know.

The cacophonous violence inside him ebbed, and he lay in the muck, staring into nothing, unaware, hollow.

* * *

He awoke in his own bed, disoriented and, for some reason, terribly frightened. He must have had a nightmare, he felt absolutely ghastly. He couldn't remember it though, so there was no use dwelling. Small favors and all that. He sat up, looked around. Something was different. Was the room unfamiliar, somehow? No, not at all, but he felt…strange. He couldn't quite put his finger on what might be wrong. He shivered as a sudden chill ran through him and, for some reason, it made him sad. He thought he'd better go yell at his plants a bit, that should sort him out. He got up, stretched, headed out his bedroom door.

Though he wasn't thinking of it at the time, the Crowley who sauntered down the hallway knew he'd been Eden's Serpent once upon a time. But he'd never met the Angel of the Eastern Gate—he wasn't entirely sure there even was one.

* * *

Gabriel still smiled his placid, uncaring smile. The others watched him with cold, distant antipathy, completely silent. There was nothing more to be said.

He was glad he was on his knees when it began, because it would have sent him there anyway once it did. 'Pain' did not do the feeling justice. It felt like nothing he'd ever known. It felt like nothing a just and loving God should ever allow to exist. He would scream if he had any capacity to, if the mere feeling hadn't knocked the wind out of him entirely. This was what the Fallen felt, he realized, every last one of them. The knowledge of having lived this pain was a weight they were forced to bear. _The memory of this unimaginable torment was something Crowley carried with him every day_. For the first time in his life he regretted eating, because the last thing he ate was coming back on him now. He vomited onto the perfect, pristine marbled floor, and distantly heard the murmurs of disgust, of disapproval. He retched again, spasmed, and fell onto his side, curled into a ball, his wings curling around him like the legs of a dying insect.

"No," he moaned, as memory after memory broke away and turned to dust, "No, no, no…" He was blinded now, deafened, he knew nothing but excruciating agony, the endless darkness tearing at his soul.

"Crowley…" he whispered his name, and then again, "Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…" If only he could keep hold of it, if he could keep hold of any of it, the touch of his hand, the color of his hair, the affection in the voice that called him, "angel". But it was slipping, slipping, slipping along a razor-sharp edge that sliced through his very being again and again.

"Crow…Cr…" he lost his name. Who's name had he lost? What was it he'd lost? What…was…he?

He lay motionless, blank-eyed, slack-jawed, the tip of his wing sinking into his own sick.

* * *

He awoke at his desk, startled to find he'd nodded off. That was very unlike him. He must have been reading something awfully dull. He looked around, looked down to find his ledger book staring up at him. Well, that would explain it. The accounting needed doing, of course, but it wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, was it? Best back at it. But perhaps a bit of cocoa first, warm the bones. He didn't feel quite right, and it wasn't only the sleeping. He almost felt…afraid? Of what, he couldn't say. Bookkeeping was tedious, but not particularly scary. Still, something about his surroundings felt off, or perhaps…no, it was probably nothing. He did feel a bit chilled, and thought it odd. Wasn't it summer? No matter, a bit of chocolate and marshmallow would soon set things right.

In the back of his mind, the Aziraphale who put the kettle on knew he had once, in a moment of doubt, given his flaming sword to the humans he'd been charged to guard. But he never saw the wily Serpent who tricked the poor things out of Paradise to begin with. He was glad; he thought it must have been a horrible creature indeed.

* * *

4\. All of their assailants were, he realized, wearing gloves to protect themselves from the ropes. [Back]

5\. While those who remained in Heaven were allowed to simply forget their Fallen brethren, memories of the angels they once were brushed away like a breeze, Memorial Evulsion was quite purposefully unpleasant. Rumor had it, Lucifer and the first dozen or so after him weren't subjected to the punishment at all. Lucifer created it himself, out of spite and anger and hatred. The Forces of Heaven found it convenient to use the procedure despite its origins. It served its purpose well as a punitive measure for daring to defy the Almighty. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, Brainwashing, Forced Amnesia, Gaslighting, homophobia parallels, kidnapping, major angst, Psychological Torture, psychological/spiritual rape (non-sexual), violent language describing metaphysical injury, Whump


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.
> 
> 02/13/2020: Minor proofreading fixes and rewording.

#### London, Winter 1946

Crowley prowled his flat, looking for something to occupy his time. He'd given his plants a good talking-to, and taken a nice, hot bath to calm his nerves and warm up a bit.1 But that was several hours ago, and now he was simply…out of things to do. He wasn't sure why this pattern had emerged over the past few months. For whatever reason, if he wasn't actively working on an assignment he had a very difficult time figuring out what to do with himself. And when that happened, he got bored. And when he got bored, he had time to think. And _that_ was rapidly becoming the worst possible state for him to be in.

There was something the matter with him. No, that wasn't quite right. There was something _wrong_ with him, in a very literal way. It felt like there was something…incongruous about him, and he didn't even know what that was supposed to _mean_. He felt a sort of emptiness inside him that never seemed to abate, even for a moment. And alongside it sat this chill, this constant, bone-deep chill that held within it such a strong feeling of melancholy that at times he felt he couldn't bear it.

He'd taken to cleaning his flat manually rather than simply willing the dirt away, because it gave him something to focus on that wasn't the inside of his own head. That was what he settled on now. He hadn't done the bedroom in a bit, he'd do the bedroom, maybe get to some places he hadn't before.

He was sweeping up under the bed when the broom dragged it out, glinting among the dust bunnies, making a faint scraping sound against the floor. The moment he saw it, he wondered how long he'd slept above it and not noticed. The metaphysical flash it gave off as he uncovered it made him cringe a moment. At first glance, it appeared to be a tiny, weak ball of pure Celestial energy. The signature was faint, yes, but it was very distinct. It had "the stink of Heaven about it", as Hastur would say. What the living Hell was something like that doing under his bed? He stared down at the thing, repulsed, fascinated, baffled, completely at a loss of what to do.

Eventually he knelt to get a closer look. It appeared to be some sort of jewelry. He reached out and, very carefully, picked it up. The thing was blessed enough that he worried it would burn him, but in his hand it only felt warm. His fingers tingled, and when he put it into his palm, that tingled too. It was a nice sort of tingle. He brushed the dust away from it as it sat in his palm.

It was a cufflink—simple, delicate, elegant—shaped like a golden harp.

He stared at it for a long time. It wasn't his, he knew that much. He tended to manifest his clothes, banish them as they slipped out of fashion. He rarely kept clothing not immediately on his person. And besides, he had never, in his _life_ , owned a pair of golden, harp-shaped cufflinks. The thought was beyond baffling. He sat down and continued to stare, transfixed, unmoving. He sat that way for _several hours_. He didn't know why.

What so fascinated him about this weird, vaguely-holy object sitting under his bed? Why didn't he just destroy it, throw it away, get rid of this thing that so clearly did not belong in his home? Was it a threat to him? Had someone planted it? Was it some sort of Heavenly listening device? Some trap that would allow Celestial forces into his home? Was that why he was sat here, seemingly ensnared inside some sort of hypnotic lure?

He had no idea. But he knew, with the certainty of a being who had listened to his instincts for thousands of years and learned to trust them implicitly, that he Absolutely Did Not Want to throw it out.

He stared at it. It sat in his hand, innocuous yet suspicious, haunting. Warm. There was something pleasant about that warmth, comforting, like holding one's hand out to a fire on a cold night. He realized that for the first time since it had appeared, that perpetually empty chill lessened just the tiniest bit as he held it. He tore his eyes away from the thing, finally. He stood, closed his hand around it, held it for a while longer. Then he slipped it into his pocket. It sat close to his body, warming his core just a little.

* * *

Aziraphale plopped into his easy chair, having actually managed to exhaust himself. He felt utterly bewildered at his behavior as he looked around the room, books pulled from shelves, furniture overturned, no surface left untouched. But he'd given up now. He had very nearly torn the place apart, and he didn't think there were any other places he could look. He glared down at his shirt sleeve, at the empty button-hole. He was significantly more upset about this than seemed necessary. It was only a cufflink. But he couldn't find it _anywhere_. He'd realized it was missing months ago, but he'd ignored it for a long time, telling himself it would turn up somewhere. But it hadn't, and for whatever reason, he now felt an overwhelming need to find it.

Though perhaps it was really a sense of normalcy he was after.

He'd been particularly out-of-sorts lately. In fact, he'd been particularly out-of-sorts for so long, and so consistently, that he'd begun to think there was something deeply wrong with him. He felt unsettled all the time, jumpy, like something was going to leap out at him around every corner. Worse, it was almost as if there was a sort of… _darkness_ within him. A cold, empty feeling, devoid of any light, any warmth, anything resembling Heaven's Grace. And that was _utterly terrifying_. A suspicion had begun to form, one he did not want to entertain in the slightest, but that now gnawed at the back of his mind on a regular basis.

He was afraid the feeling might be the first sign of The Fall.

He didn't know why he would possibly Fall now, what he possibly could have done. But he also had no idea what else the horrible feeling could be, other than the Almighty's Light beginning to fade from him. He didn't even know how to find out whether the feeling was such a sign. Who would he ask? He didn't know any Fallen, and he didn't _want_ to know any Fallen. He didn't know what he would even _say_ to a demon, the mere thought was ludicrous. But then, who was left? His fellow angels? The _Archangels_? No, absolutely not, it was out of the question. If he was Falling, perhaps he could stop it. Perhaps he could reverse it somehow. But if he told anyone else? No. He couldn't even imagine the look on Michael's face, on _Gabriel's_ , should he start asking questions about Falling.

Come to think of it, perhaps it would be wisest not to ask questions at all.

Now, as he sat in his chair amid the wreckage that was his back room, he took stock of his behavior of-late, tried to find something to explain any of it. But he could recall nothing but…oh. He could recall next to nothing, _period_. That was highly unusual, especially for him—he typically had a very good memory indeed. Come to think of it, what _was_ the last clear memory he had? He sifted through the past few years, and aside from running the shop, making reports Upstairs and the occasional nice lunch, the details were…upsettingly vague. Hazy. He thought further and further back. He finally settled on a clear memory and was disturbed to discover it was nearly 60 years ago. What had he been _doing_ for the past half-century? How far back did this lack of clear memory go, anyway?

He had a long think. And the longer he thought, the worse he felt. He remembered Before, when all were angels and Earth was not yet created.2 He remembered Lucifer's Fall, and the ensuing War. He remembered the Garden…most of it. Mesopotamia, Babylon, Greece…everything up to Ancient Rome seemed pretty clear as far as he could tell. But from there, his memories began dwindling, and the closer to the current day he got, the less he could recall. That was not the typical way memory operated, he knew, and it was extremely disturbing.

If he couldn't remember such large sections of his past, did that mean he could have done something horrible without knowing it? And why had he forgotten so much at all? Was there something the matter with his corporeal form, or did it run deeper than that? The brain merely processed memories, their true home dwelled within the soul. If there was something the matter with his soul, that could indicate corruption. It could mean…

_All right, pull yourself together, Aziraphale old-boy._

He stopped white-knuckling the arms of the chair and made himself get up. It wouldn't do to wallow; sloth was definitely a sin. He needed to calm his nerves, have a more rational think. He made himself a cup of tea and sat down with a nice book, that should help.

It didn't help at all.

* * *

1\. Even with the new heater he'd had installed, winter for an occasional reptile was never pleasant. [Back]

2\. Though, of course, he couldn't remember any of the pre-Fallen themselves, but that was to be expected, that was _normal_. [Back]

* * *

#### London, A Few Weeks Later

Crowley was antsy, as-usual. And he thought he might take a drive about town, nowhere in-particular, just somewhere. Anywhere. Somehow he felt as if he might outrun himself eventually, as long as he kept moving. So now he was driving, racing against a darkness he couldn't escape. He zoomed through town, rain beating down on the car, a hypnotic sound that lulled him into thought.

He didn't know how long he could manage this feeling, it was too present, too constant. He didn't know how he would prevent Hell from discovering his weakened position. Weakness was definitely not tolerated Below, and everything happening to him now—the depression, the constant, distracting ache, the fact that he now carried an ostensibly holy object on his person for reasons still entirely unknown to him—he didn't even want to know what they would do to him if they discovered any of it. He was trying not to add terror to the bevy of awfulness inside him, but it was blossoming with every day that the feeling continued.

He realized he was slowing down. He was apparently driving somewhere in-particular after all, but he didn't know where. He pulled the car over instinctively—this was where he parked. He didn't think this consciously, or even subconsciously. His body simply knew where it was going, even if he didn't—sheer muscle memory. He got out of the car and looked around. He hadn't gone far, it seemed he was in Soho. He was standing in front of a shop, a big red monstrosity. He wouldn't have payed it any mind at all, except that this particular shop was absolutely _lousy_ with Celestial energy. And more than that…

Supernatural energies have a certain signature, one could think of it as a signal, like a radio wave. As with any signal, the frequencies within what constituted a Celestial or Infernal signature ranged quite a bit, and the frequencies varied subtly from being to being. It was rather like a fingerprint, all quite similar, but distinct enough to identify an individual, or the things and places that individual had imbued, either purposefully or via prolonged contact.

Thing was, the frequency of the Celestial signal radiating from this shop was _identical_ to the one residing in his pocket. And the longer he stood there, soaking in that warm, fireside glow, the calmer he felt. The calmest he'd felt in a long time.

* * *

Aziraphale glared at the man casually browsing the stacks. This was a particularly stubborn customer. He'd tried outright rudeness, decreasing the temperature in the room, increasing the moldy smell vaguely emanating from the non-fiction section, and had even resorted to making small, intermittent, irritating noises—pen tapping, throat clearing, activating the squeaky hinge on the cupboard door behind the counter—nothing dissuaded this man, seemingly determined to individually inspect every last book in the shop. Eventually, Aziraphale reached the end of his patience.

"Terribly sorry," he said, "but we've closed, I'm afraid."3

The man jumped and looked behind him, as if he had forgotten Aziraphale was there. He narrowed his eyes. "But it's half past nine in the morning!"

"Indeed it is. And it just so happens that today, we close at half past nine in the morning."

He opened the front door for the man, who scowled at him as he walked past.

"I'm going to tell everyone I know about this," the man said, in a tone he clearly believed to be threatening.

"Oh, I _do_ hope so!" Aziraphale said with sincerity. He slammed the door behind him and locked it. He knew rudeness to customers wasn't exactly a step down the "not-Fallen" path, but he only felt a little bit bad about it, and _that_ made him feel awful.

He knew he shouldn't have opened in the first place; he couldn't cope with customers today. The awful feeling haunting him was worse, ever worse, and nothing seemed to alleviate it. He thought he'd better go make the rounds, visit various churches and see if anyone had need of help. Perhaps pop-in on a homeless shelter or two, while he was at it. He was about to close the front shutters when he saw the demon leaning casually against a car, arms crossed, standing right in front of the window and looking into the shop.

It looked human, of course, but he could sense it. He hadn't before, but now that he knew it was there, he could feel the Infernal energy wafting off of the foul creature, of the vehicle it rested against. His initial reaction was to freeze. That was a bad move, because now the demon appeared to be looking at _him._4 It cocked its head, seemingly studying him, its face an unreadable blank. Aziraphale slammed the shutters closed in a panic. He didn't know what to do. He wasn't a fighter. He'd never been much of one, truth be told, flaming sword or no. What did the demon want with him? Was this yet another sign he was Falling? Had it come to collect him?

The bell above the door jingled merrily and Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. The demon waltzed casually into the shop, as if it had any right being there at all. It stepped toward him. Aziraphale stepped back. They repeated this dance for a few more steps, until Aziraphale's back hit a bookshelf.

"Wh- what do you want?" Aziraphale managed, eyes wide in fright. The demon said nothing. It simply stood there, inspecting him as though he were a scientific specimen, or a particularly interesting painting. Aziraphale took the time to examine the creature in more detail himself.

He was shocked to notice it wasn't ugly,5 no boils or open sores or horrific disfigurements. It simply looked like a tall, young-ish man. It had deep red hair, slicked back and mostly covered with a tasteful hat. It was extremely well-dressed for a demon. It wore a dapper suit, all black of course, but it was quite fashionable and modern, save perhaps for the snakeskin shoes. That was too strange for words; he'd never heard of a demon who cared a whit about fashion or modernity—quite the opposite, in fact.

He looked beyond the corporeal and inspected the creature's true form, trying to figure out just what he was dealing with. It was old, this demon, as old as he was and just as world-worn. It had been on Earth from the Beginning, how had he never run across it before? How hadn't he known about it? What role had it played all these years?

The demon's spirit6 came into view, coiled within itself, winged with a faint impression of reptilian eyes, cold scales, black and red. Aziraphale gasped.

"S-serpent!"

It wasn't _a_ serpent, he was certain, it was _the_ Serpent. Seducer of the Garden, Trickster of Eden, cause of the Fall of Man. Temptation Incarnate. And it was standing in his shop, wearing a calm, vaguely amused expression.

Why had he received a visit from this particular creature? Could the demon mean to tempt him? No, he wouldn't allow that. He would not Fall so easily, he would fight if he had to. He swallowed his fear and forced himself to stop cowering. This was _his_ shop, it was _his_ turf, and he would not allow this creature to besmirch it any longer.

"Get. Out."

* * *

Crowley didn't know what to make of this angel. It definitely had an angelic air, platinum curls, sky-blue eyes, an aura of Light and Love and all that. But there was something not _quite_ angelic about it all the same. Perhaps it was the pudgy middle of its human form, the half-eaten piece of pie set on the counter. (Did it actually _eat things_? Disgusting.) Perhaps it was the thing's clothes, actual fabric and physical form, not a manifested vestment in sight. Not only that, it was wearing an outfit at least three decades out of fashion, more if you counted the coat. Of all the human customs, contemporary fashion seemed to be one of the only things angels consistently participated in. Perhaps it was the shop itself, cluttered and close and well-worn, so unlike anything he could remember of Heaven. The shop appeared to sell books, old ones, ancient ones, the thing must have been collecting them for centuries.

The angel was backed up against a bookshelf, clearly afraid of him, and that was fine. Honestly, it was nice to be appreciated as an actual demon for a change. He could tell the angel was looking at him, through him, at his core, and he thought perhaps he should do the same. It seemed the angel had been on Earth since the Garden, that was certain. But Crowley didn't remember him. He thought he knew all the angels back then, scoped them out to ensure he wouldn't be caught when Hell sent him up to stir up trouble. Why couldn't he remember him?

The true form of the angel's soul was one of holy fire, flowing like water and lightning all at once. But it was not the destructive sort, not some column of flame ready to extinguish enemies of The Lord. Rather, it gave the impression of a sort of barrier, a protective wall of safety. Guardian then, but a powerful one, maybe even a Principality. Perhaps _this_ was the Angel of the Eastern Gate—he'd never seen it before, so it was certainly possible, who knew?

"S-serpent!"

The angel's face was contorted in fright, and Crowley had to keep himself from laughing. This angel was rather…dramatic, wasn't he? But soon, the fear in its eyes shifted to something more like anger. Righteous anger, the sort one often saw just before a smiting.

"Get. Out."

The angel began to glow. It stood a bit taller, a worrying crackle of holy energy beginning to surround it.

Crowley stepped back slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

"Now hang on, no need for the fireworks, I-"

"BEGONE FIEND," the angel thundered, eyes turning increasingly blue-white, " _I CAST YOU OUT!_ "

"Ah— yep, got it!"

Crowley high-tailed it out of the shop just ahead of a wave of holy banishment, hopped into his car, and sped away. He shoved a hand into his pocket to feel for the cufflink, a nervous habit that had become more of a reflex lately. But the further he got from the shop, the more the cold darkness returned, pulling at the edges of him, engulfing him once again.

* * *

3\. He said this in a tone which managed to sound perfectly polite and respectable, while simultaneously making it quite clear that he was not, in fact, the tiniest bit sorry, nor the least bit afraid. [Back]

4\. It was difficult to tell precisely, as the demon was wearing sunglasses in the rain for some reason. [Back]

5\. It was, if he were being honest with himself (which was a rarity), actually quite nice to look at if one ignored the whole "demonic adversary" bit. [Back]

6\. The idea that demons do not have souls is entirely ludicrous. If they didn't, they would have no way of possessing a body, no way to move between worlds, no way to poison the souls of others with their own corrupted non-corporeal form. However, angels are heavily discouraged from referring to a demon's soul as such. It is rather gauche to suggest any sort of similarity between the two entities. The hypocrisy of this had not been lost on Aziraphale once. Now it was very lost indeed. [Back]

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, A Short Time Later

Aziraphale stood in Heaven's lobby, anxious and fidgety. The receptionist pointedly ignored him, as usual. Aside from that angel and the desk, the lobby was empty. Absolutely empty. Unsettlingly empty. Aziraphale hadn't ever minded Heaven's stark, minimalist nature before, not really—though he much preferred the plush, close surroundings of his bookshop. But the feeling plaguing him, the aching void inside him, brought the vacant, sterile environment into a different light. He shivered, that vague chill running through him.

The doors swung open, a voice intoned, "ENTER", and Aziraphale complied, waving a polite goodbye at the utterly unimpressed receptionist.

Gabriel waited on the other side, and he smiled as the doors shut behind him. His smile, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice, didn't quite reach his eyes, which held an unsettling combination of irritation, impatience, and disinterest. Seemed Gabriel was in his usual mood.

"Aziraphale, buddy, what's so important it couldn't wait until your next review?"

"Ah, well—" he'd rehearsed the speech several times, but as was typical, the whole thing seemed to fall apart in his mouth when it was time to deliver it, "—You see, I was in my shop, my bookshop, you know, and I'd just closed up shop. I'd felt a call to do some charity work, you know how it is, sometimes the old miracle machine just needs some exercise and—"

"Get to the point, bud," Gabriel said, more annoyance seeping into his voice.

"Yes. Erm…how to put it? Before I had a chance to leave, I was, er, _approached_ by a demon."

"Approached?"

"Yes, he…it came into my shop."

"It attacked you?"

"I, well—" Aziraphale stopped and thought for a moment, "Er…no?"

"Well, what did it want?"

"I haven't the foggiest, I chased it off almost immediately."

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Aziraphale please don't tell me you pulled me out of a Board Meeting just to report a demon sighting."

"But it wasn't just _any_ demon," Aziraphale protested, "It was _Eden's Serpent!_ "

Gabriel pulled his hand away. His jaw twitched, his eyes narrowed, he watched Aziraphale for a long moment.

"A snake isn't an uncommon form for a demon, how do you know it was the Serpent?"

"I had enough time to investigate its true form, and I don't believe I'm mistaken. It was _ancient_ , and it had all the telltale signs of a long life on Earth. I'm _sure_ it was in the Garden, and if it _was_ , well…"

For a tiny moment, an expression flashed over Gabriel's face that Aziraphale hadn't seen an Archangel wear since the War: rage. He covered it with something resembling concern almost immediately, but Aziraphale still noticed, and quietly filed it away.

"What did it say to you?" Gabriel demanded, with enough urgency that it was a bit startling.

"Er…not much of anything, actually. It only stared at me. But I did _try_ to banish it…though it ran away before I could."

Gabriel took a deep, relieved breath. He looked at him, gravely serious.

"Thank you for bringing this to our attention. You did the right thing. It's important to know the whereabouts of any key players on the Opposition's side. But Aziraphale, listen to me very carefully: Stay. Away. From that demon. I cannot express to you how dangerous that thing is, and you are years out of practice in combat. If you see it again, get yourself to safety and then tell me immediately, okay? We'll take care of it."

"Yes, all right."

Gabriel's diplomatic smile returned, "Well done, really. I'm glad we can still count on your loyal service after all these years."

The Archangel ushered the not-remotely-mollified angel out of his office and shut the door behind him. Then he scowled and made a beeline for the back rooms.

* * *

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," Beelzebub said moments after picking up the receiver. "Thiz thing hazn't been uzed in centuriez and suddenly we've got bi-yearly callz?"

" _Six months_ ," Gabriel said, "That's how long it took for _snake-boy_ to show up at our asset's doorstep! What sort of operation are you _running_ down there?"

"…Did the procedure fail?"

"I have no idea, I don't have enough information. Ours seems to have held, anyway. But I _do_ know I now have a spooked, suspicious angel with a curiosity streak who's aware that Eden's Serpent lives in London, and I'm not happy about it, I can tell you that. Have you ever seen an Evulsion fail before?"

"Not to my knowledge, I'll look into it. You know," Beelzebub's tone turned thoughtful, "if it _didn't_ fail, thiz might be an advantage."

"In what Universe could this _possibly_ be an advantage? I _knew_ we should have relocated one of them."

"Calm down, thiz iz salvageable. What happened, exactly?"

Gabriel told them. They pondered for a moment.

"Okay, here'z the deal. The angel'z firzt instinct waz to fight, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Well great! That'z what we _want_ , izn't it? They're on oppozite sidezz, they _should_ be fighting!"

"But if it happens again—"

"If it happenz again, they'll only fight again. And even if they don't, there'z no chance they'll strike up any sort of acquaintanzz. They can barely pick up each-other's signaturez, they're not capable of retaining each-other'z namez,7 it'll be _fine_."

"You'd better be right. First sign of trouble, we're relocating our operative."

"Fine, agreed. But if it _doezz_ fail, just remember, this was _your side'z_ idea in the firzt place, and Hell _will_ hold you to it. We wanted to Extinct them from the beginning!"

"Well, it seems to me, Hell needs to keep better tabs on it's operatives!"

"…Tell me how to do my job again and thiz war'z starting early."

"Look, empty threats aren't going to get either side anywhere, just…keep a close eye on yours, we'll keep a close eye our ours, we'll check in if something else develops."

"Yeah, whatever."

Beelzebub hung up on him. Gabriel sighed, and prepared himself to have a very uncomfortable conversation with the Board.

* * *

7\. This was extra insurance, implemented after the procedure itself was complete. A bit of good, old-fashioned hypnotic suggestion, with a supernatural twist. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Brainwashing, Denial, Gaslighting


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.  
> 02/08/2020: Minor update for proofreading and rewrites.

#### London, 1955

The Fall wasn't the worst part. The landing wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was After. The worst part was looking up at an endless expanse of sky with the knowledge that he would never see it from the same vantage point again. The worst part was being left with the faint echo of Before, little bits and pieces of half-recalled contentment, a jovial conversation here, a nebula constructed there, a kind smile or a gentle touch or a snippet of melody, too brief and faint for true remembrance, any millions of other little things he would never experience again, not ever. Now there was only pain and loss and loneliness and hatred and fear and regret and grief and sorrow and lost love, that was the worst part, that was the part he could never let go, not if he lived another hundred-thousand years, he would never know love again, he would never be loved again, he was unforgivable and unlovable and alone for all eternity- 

Crowley tore himself awake, shocked and breathless. He'd been dreaming. That was not a thing he did, dreaming. That was a thing he'd trained out of himself centuries ago. The thing was, demons did not dream. Demons had nightmares. Period. It was just how they were built. And he didn't want nightmares. He didn't want anything interfering with the otherwise highly enjoyable respite that was sleep. But _that_ was definitely a nightmare. It was a memory, yes, in a sense, but it was also a nightmare. And that was not a thing that happened to him anymore.

He sat up, got his bearings, checked his internal clock. He'd been asleep for five years, give or take a couple of months. He'd meant to sleep longer, much longer, but it was interrupted. _By a nightmare_. He was simultaneously outraged and terrified. Outraged because _how dare_ the tangled, electrified mass in his skull disobey him in such a brazen manner, make a fool of him inside his own head? Terrified because _how had it happened?_ He didn't dream anymore. He hadn't had a dream since the late 1300s. He'd slept _most nights_ since the last time he'd had a dream. Why now?

The void yawned deep and wide inside him and he already had his answer. It was the reason he'd slept so long in the first place. He was broken, he was fundamentally unsound, and now it was affecting one of the surest, most reliable things in his life. This was unsustainable, this thing consuming him. It was unacceptable. It was not something he would stand for.

He had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

His hand closed around the cufflink on his nightstand and he pulled it close to his chest, sat in its forbidden warmth until his heart stopped racing. Without even getting out of bed, he willed a bottle of scotch into his hand and began to drink.

* * *

Aziraphale was sure he was Falling. Nothing else explained this perpetual ache, this constant darkness swirling inside his core, threatening to spread every moment it persisted. What had he done? What about his life was so terrible that it warranted rejection? Was it the food? Maybe it was the food, maybe he'd fallen prey to gluttony after all. He needed to cut down on eating. Special occasions only. Today was no such occasion. He wouldn't eat. No luncheon out, no takeaways, he would simply open up shop and think of ways to be Good.

He put the biscuits back into the cupboard. He took a deep breath. Self-control, that was all he needed. A bit of self-control.

He changed the sign to open and unlocked the door, and it opened almost as soon as he stepped away from it. He jumped and whirled around, startled to already have a customer. He jumped again when he saw who had opened his door.

It was the demon.

The Serpent stood in the entryway of his shop, that same impeccable suit, that same mild, curious expression. Aziraphale felt anger rise in his chest.

" _What do you want?_ " he spat, and he didn't even know why he bothered asking when he didn't care about the answer.

"I'm sorry to bother you…I need to talk to you. We need to talk."

The demon's voice was measured, smooth. It held no Infernal intonations, no raspy growls or snake-like hisses. And it had apologized. What sort of demon _apologized_? Was politeness a part of his trickery?

"I have no intention of _talking_ with you! I will _not_ be tempted, vile Serpent! Leave this instant! If I see you around here again I will banish you without another thought!"

The demon shook its head, waved emphatically, "No, no tempting, no banishing just…listen, there's something-"

"I will not repeat myself, demon, begone at once or feel the Wrath of the Lord!"

"Oh for chrissake, I only want to-"

Aziraphale gathered a bit of holy lightning into his hand and held it aloft. He glared at the intruder. The intruder rolled its eyes and threw up its hands.

"Fine! Fine! I'm going! Fucking _angels_ …" It stormed out the door and let it fall closed with a heavy thud.

Aziraphale shook the lighting off of his hand. It dissipated harmlessly into the air leaving only a faint scent of ozone. His hand was shaking by the time it reached his side. He leaned against the nearest bookshelf and brought his shaking hand to cover his mouth. He swallowed down the panic threatening to overtake him. What did it _mean_ that the Serpent appeared so soon after he'd been considering his predicament, been worried about Falling?1 What did it mean that the Serpent wanted to _talk_ to him?

He wouldn't report it, he decided. What if the demon's appearance was another sign, more proof of his loss of Grace? They couldn't know, he couldn't allow that. He flipped the sign back to closed and locked the door. No bookshop today, only service to the Lord. He'd volunteer more. He'd eat less. He could still salvage this, he was sure, he just needed time.

He hoped he had time.

* * *

Crowley slunk back to his car and slid into it. He sat behind the wheel, fuming. Angels. Self-righteous, pigheaded, sanctimonious bastards. He only had questions, was that so difficult? _But that was always the trouble, wasn't it?_ He thought, _I only ever had questions and look where it got me_.

The Bentley roared to life and he peeled out onto the street, swerving around pedestrians and other cars. He idly traced the cufflink in his pocket. There was a connection, it was unquestionable. How had the angel not noticed he was carrying it? He _should_ have noticed, shouldn't he? Or was trying to recognize one's own energy signature something like trying to smell one's own cologne? He didn't know. But he knew he was baffled as to how his own people hadn't caught him with it yet. He'd carried it with him to every check-in before and after his nap, and not a peep.2

He switched on his car radio and tried to find the station that played that odd, electric music with the phenomenal singer. The one he could only get in his car.

* * *

#### London, A Few Days Later

Gabriel didn't use doors. They were pointless. He simply needed to be in a place, and then he was there. Really, he saw all the unnecessary physicality of Aziraphale's lifestyle as contributing factors to his…problem. Books, food, walls, doors, so many barriers to ethereal existence. Far too human.

Which is why, when it was time for Aziraphale's quarterly review, Gabriel appeared suddenly in the middle of the shop, directly in front of him. Aziraphale jumped a mile and let out a yelp and Gabriel attempted a smile. Smiles were supposed to put people at ease.

"Aziraphale," he said congenially, "You got a minute?"

"Erm…yes, uh…yes, let me just…" he set aside the book (barrier) he was holding and sat on the sofa (barrier) to give the Archangel his full attention. Gabriel appreciated that about Aziraphale; despite his quirks, he was ever so attentive. Eager to please, eager to help the cause. It was such a useful trait in an asset.

"So, quarterly review time. Your miracle count is up…but they're all authorized uses, so good job, buddy! Also you've gone a whole year without any unscheduled meetings. That's big, Ophiel down in filing wanted me to thank you for that one personally. Much less paperwork with scheduled meetings."

"Ah…right," Aziraphale said, "So then, I've improved?"

"Most definitely, bud. If you keep this up, we might be looking at cutting your reviews down to three-per-year in the next decade or so. Congrats on that!"

"Er…thank you."

"How's everything down here? Anything unusual, anything to report?"

"Ah, no. No, nothing in particular. Why, has something happened?"

"Not that I'm aware, just checking off the boxes here. Oh, hey," he slipped in casually, "did you ever run into that demon again? The uh, the Serpent?"

Aziraphale shook his head, nonchalant, "Not since my last reported sighting, no."

"Yeah, when was that," Gabriel checked the file in his hand, "…1949. You saw him loitering outside around your shop, but you successfully ran him off. Nothing since?"

"No, nothing. I think whatever he was after, he must have given it up."

Gabriel smiled a nearly genuine smile, "Great to hear it. Welp, I've gotta' run, but keep up the good work, okay bud?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you."

Gabriel gave him a nod and vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared.

Aziraphale fell to pieces almost as soon as he was gone.

* * *

1\. Never mind that he'd been thinking and worrying about such a thing nearly every minute of every day for the past several years. [Back]

2\. His check-in schedule had increased significantly. As in, he had one now. Twice-annual check-ins, where before it was an as-needed, could blow-of whenever sort of a thing. Now, unless he was asleep, Hastur and Ligur would track him down every six months like clockwork. They said it was a new policy. He found that exceedingly suspect, considering that the policy hadn't changed in just about six millennia. But like so much in his life anymore, he had no idea what it meant. [Back]

* * *

#### London, 1961

Crowley lurked in a dark corner of the park, waiting for his latest check-in, three months ahead of schedule. He shivered. It was so bloody _cold_ all the time. He missed Rome. Properly Mediterranean climate, Rome. Here? Nothing but cold, and surprise rain showers, and the same oppressive, all-consuming loneliness that he'd carried with him through the rest of his life. Was there _ever_ a time he wasn't so _utterly_ alone? If there was, he'd forgotten it. But then, that might not be too off the mark. He'd forgotten other things as well, after all.

He'd worked out that something was wrong with his memory a few years ago. Sometimes he would try to think of things, specific times, specific places, significant events he thought he'd been a part of. But when he tried, there was a blankness, the sensation of having forgotten something just on the tip of one's tongue, but much subtler. Other times, he would find some evidence of his having done something, a commendation he'd received, an event brought up that he _knew_ he should have been involved with, and he would have absolutely no recollection of it at all. None whatsoever.

He was fairly certain the memory problem was just another indication that there was something dangerously wrong with him. That this memory loss was somehow tied to the void, that sensation of hovering just above a pit of utter despair, which haunted him every moment of every day. And every time he thought about any of it, he wanted to escape his own skin.

He'd been drinking more lately, much more. He was drunk more often than not, actually. He was drunk right now. He wondered if the others would notice at all. He'd never felt more invisible than he had these past few decades.

The loose ground at his feet stirred, and Hastur and Ligur rose before him, glaring at him with their dull, stupid faces. He hated them. He hated all of them. But Hell was all he had, what would he be without them?

 _Free_ , he thought, and hated himself for it.

"All Hail Satan," Hastur intoned.

"All Hail Satan," Ligur echoed.

"Yeah, hi guys, Hail Satan, all that," he said, cool and casual as ever, his mind screaming into the void.

"Let us recount the deeds of the day," Hastur said, and Crowley managed to stop himself from mouthing the words along with him. Every bloody time.

"I have convinced a fireman to begin setting his own fires, to chase the valor of putting them out again, " Ligur said, grinning proudly, "He shall be ours in a month."

"I have nudged the thoughts of an angry man toward those of murder. He shall kill dozens before he is captured. He is ours by week's end," Hastur said, with a bit of one-upmanship.

"Wow, yeah, okay, harsh one man," Crowley said, wracking his brain to think of _anything_ he'd done in the past three months that he could put forward, "Yeah, okay. I ah…oh, here's a good one: panda crossings. That's one of mine."

They stared at him blankly.

"I know, I know, doesn't go into effect until next year, but it's ten-times as complicated as the old crossing, total havoc, lots of minor accidents, pedestrians narrowly escaping being flattened, that sort of thing."

They continued to stare at him blankly.

"Look, trust me, it'll be a big hit Downstairs. What's the score?"

"What score?" Ligur asked, baffled.

Crowley sighed, "What's _happening_? Why are you _here_?"

"Your production numbers are down," Hastur said, "And you missed your last check-in. If you do not improve soon, you'll be looking at a _reprimand_."

Crowley tried not to let-on how unpleasant of a thought that was. Hell's reprimands were…intense.

"Look, guys, I know I'm behind on the paperwork a bit, but it's fine. It's not a problem. I'm still getting used to the whole 'stricter protocols' thing. But you know, I was meaning to ask about that, actually, because I'm starting to get the impression that these rules aren't exactly being fairly applied. Seems like I might be the _only one_ they're being applied to, in fact, and I'm starting to wonder why that is."

They didn't respond, either of them, only stared, the hatred on their faces deepening.

"Welp, great guys, great chat, I've got places to be, so if there isn't anything else?"

They continued to stare. He shrugged and walked away.

"This was a warning, Crowley," Ligur called after him, "Next one won't be as lenient."

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, "Great. Cheers."

He slid into his car and drove away. As he did, he reached into his pocket and fidgeted with his small, metal totem. He ran his finger along its contours, focused on the pleasant tingle it generated. He was glad they hadn't discovered it—every meeting, he was half-worried they'd call him on it immediately.

It was the only secret he'd ever felt properly guilty about in his life, and really only because he knew if he were caught with it, there would be questions he had absolutely no answers to. He was always a bit concerned that the energy radiating off of it might arouse some suspicion in his fellow demons, but they never seemed to notice. Perhaps its trace amounts of holiness were masked by his overall unholiness, or perhaps they just didn't see the things they didn't want to see. If the latter was the case, then at least in that way, they were very much alike anymore.

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, Minutes Later

Hastur and Ligur walked into Beelzebub's office, wearing the same blank, grim expressions they always did.

"Well?" Beelzebub said without looking up from their paperwork.

"He's still carting it around," Hastur said, "Nasty little thing was practically glowing. Dunno how stupid he thinks we are."

"Well, he needz to go on thinking you're stupid," Beelzebub gave them a stern glare. "He can barely sense anything from it at all. We need him to keep thinking you can't either. The thing's harmlezz by itzelf. If we leave him to stew with it, the myztery will drive him mad, and that'z to our advantage. If you point it out, he'll know we're interested in it. If you confizcate it, he'll try to find out why. Any acknowledgement of the thing will only make him suspiciouz of uz, start asking questionz."

"He's already suspicious," Ligur said. "Asked about his tighter restrictions."

"Well, then it certainly won't be of any help to make him any _more_ suspiciouz, _will_ it? How'z hiz general condition?"

"Worsening," Hastur said, smiling. "He was stinking drunk, for one thing."

"Fidgety, too," Ligur added. "Looked like anxiety."

Beelzebub smirked back at them, "Good. Can't be long until he crackz entirely. Then Downstairz won't have any choice but to let uz extinct him, will they?"

* * *

#### London, 1968

Crowley leaned heavily against the wall outside the bookshop, out of view of the window, just close enough to get a bit of that glorious warmth. He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, took a deep breath. This was a ritual now, as much as the cufflink in his pocket, the bottle(s) of wine before bedtime, the cathartic release that was gardening. But he knew it was dangerous; he'd been chased away by the angel more than once. It was likely that if he kept it up, the thing would call in reinforcements eventually. But he just…he needed this. He needed any respite he could get, no matter how small, how brief.

He wanted to tell the angel about the cufflink. He thought he probably _shouldn't_ tell the angel about the cufflink. He was afraid that if he told the angel about the cufflink, the angel would take it away from him. He thought the cufflink must _mean_ something. He was almost certain the memory loss explained his ignorance over its origins. But that didn't mean he had any idea what it meant that it was in his _house_ , found in his _bedroom_. Why it seemed to belong to the angel.

He could remember the Garden. He couldn't remember the angel. The angel must have been _in_ the Garden. Again and again, he tried to put the pieces together, but they wouldn't fit, and he felt like an utter imbecile because they _should_ , he could _feel_ it, but he couldn't _make them fit_. It felt like he was continually circling an obvious answer he couldn't grasp. Every time he reached for it, it slipped back out of his fingers. It was driving him properly mad.

He idly scratched at his arm, rubbing the sore vein at the bend.

He'd picked up a bit of a needle habit over the past few years. He was trying to pretend that he hadn't, that it wasn't a problem, that "habit" was the wrong word. He'd enjoyed the odd opium den in centuries past without any long-term ill-effects. He was a _demon_ , he wasn't constrained to the biological flaws of humanity, addiction wasn't a concern. He could be sober whenever he wished. He just…didn't wish it much anymore. It was easier to exist with himself when that empty feeling sank into the background, dimmed for a few hours. When the ghost of his latest nightmare vanished behind the curtain of a heroin trip. He'd shot up an hour or so ago, actually, but like every other measure he'd been using to numb out completely, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

So now here he was, high as a kite, barely standing against the bookshop wall, soaking in waves of Celestial calm. Fighting himself over whether to try to say anything about the cufflink, whether he was _actually_ craving another hit so soon after the last one or only telling himself he was, whether the torment he was currently living wasn't some sort of elaborate punishment for some infraction he wasn't aware of. Enough was going on in his head that he really wasn't paying any attention to his surroundings. Which is probably why, when the angel stepped out of its shop and saw him, he didn't move at all.

* * *

Aziraphale threw open the shop door and advanced on the demon. He'd had it. They'd been doing this dance for years now. Lately he'd been trying to ignore the thing, pretend it wasn't there, that its presence wasn't a constant reminder of the torment he was currently living, but this was the fourth time this _week_ and he couldn't stand looking at it anymore. As he got close enough to the demon to make out close detail, he slowed his pace, still irritated and angry, but now also just a bit…well, maybe concerned was too strong a word, but…

When the demon had first come around it looked curious, and vaguely amused, and rather self-possessed. As years went by it looked increasingly serious, sometimes a bit bored, but generally in-command of its faculties. Today however—and for how long, he wondered—the demon looked utterly _lost_. It looked pale and disheveled, it's clothing not quite as smart and fashionable as years past, shaggy unkempt hair hanging over the drooping sunglasses that did nothing to hide its golden eyes. It (he)3 looked at Aziraphale and, upon realizing he'd been caught once again, actually _pouted_.

"I know," he said, lifting his hands, "I know! But I had to. I _had_ to…" He trailed off, hugged himself, gave the pavement an ashamed frown.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Patience was a virtue, after all. Best to practice those as often as possible, considering.

"Why are you here?" he asked, in what he hoped wasn't too hostile a tone, "What are you _doing_ here? What do you possibly hope to accomplish?"

The demon shrugged, "It's jus…I— it— I'm— it's warmer."

"…What?"

"Nothing, never mind. I'm going, no smiting, yeah? Okay…" He muttered all of this in a blank monotone, still staring at the ground. He began shuffling away, toward his car.

Aziraphale fought himself a moment before speaking up.

"Wait," he said, and almost immediately regretted it. The demon looked back at him with such a desolate expression that it was very difficult not to feel very sorry for him.

"What is your name, Serpent? If you're going to keep lurking out here like this, I think I'm at least entitled to that."

The demon gave him a long, semi-steady look, as steady as he could while he swayed slightly.

"My name's ##."

Aziraphale frowned. Was that some sort of Infernal tongue he didn't understand? It didn't sound like language at all. It barely sounded like…sound.

"What was that?"

"##. M'name's ##. What's, uh, what's yours?"

* * *

The angel answered. Crowley scrunched up his entire face. Angelic names were sometimes tongue-twisters. Was he just too stoned to understand it?

"Wait, _what_?"

The angel blinked, "I said my name is ##."

"Wh— that's not a word."

" _I beg your pardon?_ " The angel got huffy immediately and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"No, I mean, when…when you said it…your name, it wasn't…didn't sound like words."

"I— …But that's how _your_ name sounded to _me_! Like it wasn't a word at all!"

They stared at each other, completely at a loss of what to do. Crowley was _far_ too high for this.4 He tried to think it through, but thinking was difficult enough behind this self-imposed fog. Adding a wrinkle of this magnitude was…not in the cards, today.

"Nah," he said eventually, waving the entire idea away. "That's not…nah."

He wandered over to his car, managed to get the door open after several tries, decided he'd better sober up a least a little if he didn't want to discorporate himself on the drive home (though really, would that be too terrible a thing?), and did so. He leaned on the roof of the car and looked over at the angel, on the other side of the road. He pointed at him, arm unsteady despite its being braced on the car's roof.

"I'm gonna' call you angel, angel," he said. He climbed into his car and drove off as the angel watched him go, puzzled and shocked.

* * *

3\. Aziraphale had worked hard over the years not to allow himself any sympathy for the thing. It was poor practice to think of it as anything other than an enemy, faceless, impersonal. But seeing him in such a state inspired a compassion in the angel that he couldn't ignore. He couldn't think of him as an 'it' anymore, not when he looked so _pitiful_. [Back]

4\. Though it was at least somewhat reassuring to know that the angel was experiencing something similar, which meant he wasn't wholly mad just yet. Unless, of course, the angel was a figment of his imagination and he'd been mad the whole time. At this point, that was not outside the realm of possibility. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Brainwashing, Denial, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gaslighting, major angst, nightmares


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.
> 
> 02/18/2020: Minor update for proofreading & rewording.

#### The Ethereal Plane, 1972

Michael smiled professionally as Gabriel entered her office. She gave him a questioning look as he sat down, and he answered her unspoken question.

"It's going much better than expected," Gabriel said, beaming. "By the time the War starts, we'll have our Angel of the Eastern Gate back in fighting form."

"Are you so sure? Five-thousand years to develop such _poor habits_ , and yet rehabilitated in under a century?"

Gabriel shrugged. "What can I say? I'm good at my job."

"Indeed. How are his virtues measuring up these days?"

Gabriel ticked off the list on his fingers, "Charity: He's never been more judicious with his miracle work. Temperance: He's stopped sullying his Celestial temple with frivolities like 'food' altogether. Humility: He's gone from clinging to those garish human garments to manifesting plain, simple vestments more befitting an angel of his rank. Prudence: That shop of his is cleaner and more orderly than I've _ever_ seen it, and Justice: I actually watched him _sell_ one of those moldering piles of tree pulp he's been hoarding all these years, and I don't think it was the first. As far as Faith goes, he's obedient, unquestioning, loyal, eager to follow the Almighty's command…Overall, he's shaping up to be the model soldier."

Michael nodded approvingly, "Excellent. And…the demon?"

"He's…not entirely _gone_ , but I'm not concerned. Our scouts spot him every once in a while, but the two have had next-to no interaction in over twenty years. Every time they do interact, Aziraphale is both admirably reserved and impressively effective in chasing him off…Oh! Fortitude, there's another one. We still haven't managed to learn _why_ the demon keeps coming around, but I don't know that it matters. The connection's been severed."

"The demon is a loose end," Michael said firmly. "You need to tie it off. We need to know his motives, whether Hell is keeping up their end of the bargain. For all we know they've put him up to something. Up the surveillance on the shop, see if we can't learn anything new."

"Of course," Gabriel looked appropriately chastened. "We'll keep the investigation open."

"Well," Michael smiled again and stood, preparing to see Gabriel out, "I'm certainly impressed. You've handled this unfortunate situation with aplomb so far. But don't get complacent. I don't need to remind you how… _politically sensitive_ the entire matter is. If it blows up in our faces, the fallout could be…unimaginable."

Gabriel followed her to the door, "Of course, absolutely. Thank you for the opportunity, it's been a challenging, but rewarding project."

"Glad to hear it."

Michael closed the door behind him and returned to the paperwork on her desk. Minutes later, the sigil on the wall to her right began to glow, and then she was looking at Metatron.

"Report," Metatron's disembodied head said. Michael smiled that same, professional smile.

"All's quiet down on Earth. All agents present and accounted-for, all initiatives going smoothly, everything running according to Plan."

"Excellent. Ah…the Lord wanted to enquire about a particular angel: Aziraphale. Says his prayers have begun worrying Her a bit, he seems somewhat distressed these past few years. Has anything happened recently, that you're aware?"

"No," Michael said with the ease of an accomplished liar, "nothing comes to mind."

"Well keep an eye out, please. Wouldn't want anything…unpleasant befalling our most seasoned Earth operative, would we?"

"No," Michael said, her reassuring smile widening, "we certainly wouldn't."

* * *

#### London, 1975

Crowley flew awake. He took a moment to slow his breath. He rolled to the edge of his bed, propped himself up on his elbows, and leaned over his nightstand long enough to snort the lines of coke he'd prepared the night before. It was the only way he could manage anymore. Uppers to start the day. Downers to sleep.

Sleep.

He hated sleeping. He avoided it whenever he could these days. Before this, he hadn't slept in a week, and some of the hallucinations hadn't been much different than his typical dreams, so last night he thought, 'fuck it', shot a larger hit than normal, and sank into unconsciousness.

He'd loved sleeping once, he knew. But he'd been able to stop himself from dreaming then. Stop the endless stream of gut-wrenching nightmares that tore him awake, clawing at his insides, forcing him to consciously remember how to breathe. He didn't know how to prevent them anymore.

He couldn't remember.

His memory had been fucked for so long now that he wondered if it had always been this way. Were the memories he still held—memories of once living somewhere approaching a "happy" life, or at the very least a contented one—simply a longstanding delusion? At this point, it was so bad he wasn't even sure when the problem had started. There were so many holes: wide, gaping chasms where he was sure something _should_ be, but when he looked there was nothing but the ever-present, gnawing, indistinct ache that had plagued him for decades (centuries? He had no way of knowing).

He forced himself out of bed, something inside him still desperate to live, seek out anything that might temper this spiral.

He knew just the place.

* * *

The disco was loud and dark and smokey and thrumming with people, and Crowley felt like he could almost lose himself in it. Almost. He'd become a regular here, having found something to do that wasn't passing out or hanging around an uptight angel's bookshop. He could even still get high here, on any number of new, interesting drugs alongside the old standards. And the scene offered other easily-acquired delights, as well. Delights he was currently attempting to delight in, to very unsatisfying results.

Oh, he'd managed to score, that wasn't ever an issue. Getting laid was never a concern for a temptation artist of his magnitude, and certainly not in this new era of "free love". He'd gone for a woman this evening, a pretty, blonde young thing in a peasant minidress and enough makeup to obscure her features into a perfect mask of near-anonymity. She was just another girl on the dance floor, no names necessary—not for this sort of thing. He'd simply approached her, given her the right smile, the right smoldering look. She'd smiled back at him in-kind, taken his hand, and they'd found a dark, slightly-quieter hideaway in which to proceed with the ritual.1

Now she was on her knees, her knee-high leather boots splayed out behind her as she blew him. He was leaned up against the wall, head back, eyes closed, trying desperately to _just feel something. Anything._ He could feel the things she was _doing_ to him, and his body was responding appropriately, but he was miles away from any of it. His mind was engulfed by the void, lost inside its endless depths.

Ethereal beings do not, strictly speaking, _need_ anything. They have no biological urges whatsoever. Every bit of biology integrated into their corporeal shell only ever appears if they Make An Effort. But Crowley had discovered sex rather early in his tenure on Earth, and found that he very much enjoyed it. He didn't need it, certainly. Sometimes he'd be in the mood to indulge, but he could go centuries without thinking about it at all. It was a hobby more than anything, a casual past-time he didn't feel particularly attached to. It was fun. It felt good. It wasn't a bad way to spend an hour or so, every once in a while. But that was all. His attitudes around sex were very free of any of the sort of baggage humans carried around with it.

But he'd also discovered early-on that sex was another way to numb out, another drug. He could shut out the world, focus on physical sensation, no thought involved, just the euphoria of those lovely pleasure hormones rushing through his corporeal form, and the soothing calm that followed. So he'd used it, like he'd used any of his other coping mechanisms. His poorly developed, increasingly unhelpful, _increasingly unhealthy_ coping mechanisms. And like any of the others, it now seemed like he was chasing down outcomes he had no way of reaching anymore.

The climax took him by surprise, he was so deep inside his own head. A brief flash of pleasure, a small drop in the sea of despair he drifted in, and then it was gone again and nothing had changed at all. He looked down at the frail mortal kneeling before him and he didn't hate her, but he certainly didn't love her either. He didn't even like her. He felt _nothing_ for the creature, and for some reason that made everything worse. There was no calm to be found here, no comfort, no true release. Right now his only distinct feelings were revulsion and self-loathing, and the edges of a sort of panic, all muffled by the embrace of the void.

As he watched the woman pull away from him—sit back and pull a mirror from her purse, check her lipstick, prepare a line—Crowley felt an urgent need for _air_. Demons didn't _need_ , need air, of course, but suffocation was still not a pleasant sensation. And right now he felt like he was _drowning_. He had to get out. He righted his jeans and stumbled down the hallway, leaving the woman behind.2 He found his way to a back alley door and escaped into the night air. He leaned against the wall opposite the door, closed his eyes for just a moment, trying to center himself enough to just get to his blasted car.

When he opened his eyes, Hastur and Ligur stood right in front of him, boxing him in, trapping him against the wall.

"Whu—" he managed, before Hastur made something approximating a grin and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over. They took his arms.

"Missed one too many check-ins, Crowley," Ligur said, "No more chances. You're well-overdue for a reprimand."

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, Some Time Later

Crowley lay on the ground in as tight a ball as his human form would allow. He was too weak to stand. He'd have reverted to snake form long ago if the chains around his limbs weren't specifically preventing him from doing so. He didn't know how long he'd been here, trapped in the dark. It was an endless blur of pain and solitude and junk withdrawal, cravings he was trying to convince himself weren't anything of the sort. And all of it was interspersed with the main punishment, the random attacks from his fellow demons.

Sometimes a demon would appear with another kick, another whack with something blunt, another poke with something sharp, another small, strategically-placed burn, another handful of feathers torn from his aching wings. Sometimes a demon would slide open the door's porthole and whisper hatred and recrimination through it, sift through his mind and repeat back to him the darkest, most painful truths hiding inside his soul. "You don't belong anywhere," the disembodied voice might say, "You couldn't cut it as an angel, you're a pathetic excuse for a demon. So long as you live, you will never be accepted, and you will never be loved."

But when the door opened this time, the chains fell away and the buzzing of flies filled the silence. In the dim light spilling from the door, he saw net socks inside dingy black shoes, a toe tapping impatiently.

"Well?" Beelzebub said, nonchalantly, "You just going to lie there? Get up, we've got better usez for this cell than to wazte it on you."

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't look at Beelzebub, couldn't face another soul. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to Not Be. He hadn't had a reprimand in centuries, he'd forgotten just how utterly awful they were. But worse, he wasn't entirely sure whether the punishment was truly any harsher than the Hell he lived every day on Earth, anymore. He'd barely even felt some of the torture he'd been put through, numbed as he already was, so distant that he barely inhabited his corporeal form at all.

But more than any of it, he couldn't stop thinking about the cufflink. It sat nestled comfortably in his pocket, just as it had been when they nabbed him. He couldn't understand why they hadn't confiscated the thing. It was _impossible_ not to notice down here, it was the most Holy thing around for countless miles. But not a single acknowledgement, not one sign that anyone other than him knew it existed at all.

What did it _mean_? Were they honestly blind to it? Were they ignoring it on purpose, some sort of psychological torture? Or—and this was the thing he feared more than anything—did it not actually exist at all? Had he, in his miserable, lonely madness, invented it entirely? He brushed a finger across it. His finger still tingled. It was still warm, so much more noticeable in the grave-chill that permeated this part of Hell.

Beelzebub had already left without another word. Punishment over, prisoner released, no need to hang around. Crowley stumbled out of the cell and looked up and down the seemingly-infinite hallway of identical, grey metal doors and half-dead fluorescent bulbs.

He wanted to go home.

And just like that, he was. He stood in his flat, amid his fearful but drooping plants, unable to mask their need for the water they'd missed for what had been, according to his internal clock, three weeks. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming his skin and nothing else. The cufflink was still in his pocket (or was it?) warming his core and nothing else. He wandered into his study and plopped onto a sofa he'd decided should be there now.

It didn't make sense that Hell didn't know about the cufflink. They _must_ be messing with him, pretending it didn't exist. Did they know it belonged to the angel? What if this was all some kind of elaborate cover-up? What were they even covering up?

Heaven and Hell both had the ability to alter memories, he knew that, that was part of what the Fall _was_. Despite the wide, blank spaces in his memories of Earth, he had crystal clear recollection of his Fall.

A sudden change around him, the feeling of an actual, physical drop, his wings powerless to stop the descent. Losing more and more of Heaven the further he Falls, awash in pain and sorrow, terrified the Fall might last forever and there will eventually be nothing left of him. Thinking that nothing could possibly be worse than this feeling moments before he is engulfed in brimstone, Infernal fire burning away every last shred of his divinity as the last concrete details of Before are torn from his mind. He doesn't even know his own name.

A Rebirth in Hell's Forge, transformed into a new being. Serpent is his name now, and Demon, and Damned. Slithering out of the Pit, feeling hate for the first time in his life, a hatred that extends Above and Below simultaneously, to the Almighty and Lucifer alike…

He awoke, gasping. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. It made sense; they hadn't allowed him to sleep down Below. Every time he started to drift off, somebody would wake him up again. They must have known he'd been doing it so long that he depended on it now, that his corporeal brain needed it to keep himself sane.

But then, sanity was largely overrated, wasn't it?

He pulled himself together long enough to drag himself to his bedroom, find his kit, cook up a hit, shoot it, and drift off again. After so much time away he ~~needed~~ ~~craved~~ wanted a hit, anyway, so it all worked out.

* * *

1\. It had nothing to do with how he felt, what was happening in his head. It was his own mask, the maneuvers of a being whose seduction skills had been honed to perfection over millennia. He didn't even have to think about it. Which, considering what _was_ going on in his head, was probably better for everyone. [Back]

2\. For her part, the woman didn't seem the least bit bothered that he was leaving so suddenly, without a word. She likely reasoned there were plenty more where he came from. And of course, she was right. [Back]

* * *

#### London, A Few Weeks Later

Aziraphale glanced out the window and sighed.

The demon was back once again, standing just outside the window this time. Facing it, not even trying to hide. He looked worse than ever. He shuffled from foot to foot, glancing around as though he were expecting sudden attack. His shoulder-length hair was lank and untamed. His clothes were rumpled and dirty. What skin he had exposed was covered in bruises and scratches in various stages of healing. Aziraphale was sure the demon could have used his own power to solve any of these cosmetic issues, but the look on his face said he was in no mental state to do any such thing. That was clear even behind the sunglasses.

Aziraphale felt properly terrible for the sorry creature at this point. Whatever was going on with him, it was clearly tormenting him, and Aziraphale could empathize. Torment was all he knew, anymore. He looked around his shop, more sterile and devoid of life than it had ever been, shelves with multiple missing books. He'd given up his little pleasures, his Earthly trappings, all the things that made him…him. And nothing had changed at all. If anything the feeling was worse—sharper, deeper, more intrusively present—without his creature comforts to keep him company. He didn't understand any of it. He was beginning to suspect all his efforts had been entirely for naught, that he'd been wrong from the beginning. If he _were_ Falling, surely he would have _landed_ by now. Wouldn't he?

Sometimes it seemed he felt quite similar to the way the demon looked. As if nothing held any meaning for him anymore. As if the ground could open and swallow him whole and he might not even care, if it freed him from this cold, unrelenting darkness for even a moment.

He took a breath and stepped outside with only some trepidation. The demon had never actually tried to _hurt_ him, it was doubtful he would start now. But the demon rushed to greet him the moment he shut the door, and he nearly fled right back into the shop. He resisted the urge—he wouldn't be cowed so easily. There were far scarier things in his life than this sad, bedraggled creature.

"Angel!" The demon said, urgent and loud. "Angel listen, no smiting now, _listen_ I think something happened—"

In sharp contrast to his usual sedate, indifferent demeanor, today the demon was extremely animated and intense. Manic. Aziraphale must have looked alarmed because the demon backed off a bit, rubbed the back of his neck, gave a wave that looked like a frantic attempt at nonchalance.

"Can't sleep, sleep's not workin' right, lotsa' time to think. Been thinkin' about names. They're not words, but they _are_ , yeah? Proper words, names, but we dunno 'em, you and me, I mean _I_ know, and _you_ know, but we don't— And…and the signal! The signal's the same, _it's the same—_ "

"Slow down," Aziraphale said, stepping away slightly. Perhaps he'd judged too quickly whether the thing was dangerous, "What signal?"

"The _signal_ , the—" he waved wildly at the shop window, "doesn't matter, look, I think they've done a, a, a thing, I think they— I think maybe they broke it? Or the madness is theirs, they _made_ it, but I dunno why, why're they—?"

" _They_?" Oh dear. This sounded an awful lot like the sort of paranoid psychosis one often saw in transients. The poor, poor thing.

"The…the _Powers_ ," he whispered it, as though suddenly concerned he could be heard. He pointed to the sky, to the ground, " _Them_."

Oh. Well now, that made him wonder if the demon might be making more sense than it sounded. He surely must mean the Powers That Be, Heaven and Hell.

The demon leaned in closer and Aziraphale could see his eyes behind the glasses, wide and frightened.

"What if they took it away? What if the past's gone because they _took it_? What if it's _history_?"

Aziraphale thought for a moment, tried to parse what the demon could be trying to say. Took the past away? What…Oh!

"Do you mean…demon, is there something the matter with your memory?" Could it be possible they were somehow suffering the same affliction?

The demon nodded emphatically. "Yours?"

Aziraphale almost answered. He'd opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, and it suddenly hit him—this could all be a ruse. This could all be some sort of subterfuge, a ploy to get him to admit to his failings, admit that he'd become corrupted enough to lose himself. He still didn't know why his memory was so poor (though oddly enough, he recalled the past thirty years or so just fine), and he still had no other explanation outside of the corrosion of his soul. He shut his mouth and took several more steps back.

"I shouldn't be talking to you," he said, stern and forceful. "Get out of here. Go away."

The demon, who had begun to look a bit hopeful, now looked crestfallen. He reached into his pocket for something.

"But…but the signal—"

"No, enough!"

The demon froze and Aziraphale realized he must have given off a bit of a Righteous glow. He tried to control his anger, though it was the easier thing to feel next to his rising panic. In moments, he'd convinced himself that this _was_ a ruse, that he'd been manipulated into feeling sorry for the thing, had his natural capacity for sympathy abused. The Serpent was a trickster, a master of temptation. Aziraphale couldn't trust anything it said. He couldn't trust that this whole thing wasn't some sort of act.

"Go on! Away with you!"

The shocked demon stood unmoving for a few moments, then hung his head, turned, and shuffled away. Aziraphale waited until he was out of view3 before he made a slow retreat into the shop. He closed up and headed for the back room, took a seat in his easy chair, one of the only pieces of furniture left in the place. He took a few deep breaths, rattled and concerned.

He wasn't sure what to make of the exchange at all. He'd never seen the demon in such a state before. He'd seen him well-composed, he'd seen him so drunk or otherwise intoxicated that he could barely stand, but this was something else entirely. He was raving, incoherent, paranoid. Something awful must have happened to him. ' _The Powers_ ' the demon had said. But why in the world would he refer to them _both_ , as though they were the same entity? Was he so deluded as to believe the two sides were colluding? And colluding to do _what_ , exactly? Affect his memory? _Their_ memory? Why? And why would the demon even _know_ about Aziraphale's memory? How could he have known? And whatever in the world was ' _the signal'_ supposed to be? Was he, in his delusion, seeing some sort of sign, some call to action that wasn't there?

But wait. Wasn't there a time, back when he'd first started coming around, when the demon seemed to be trying to tell him something? He thought back to the interactions they'd had over the past three decades. He had to concentrate rather hard to recall any specifics. It seemed his memory of recent events wasn't as solid as he'd thought…

Several things clicked together at once.

He couldn't understand the demon's name. The demon couldn't understand his. He had holes in his memory. The demon apparently had holes in his. They'd both been on Earth since the Beginning, but they had no idea the other existed until a scant few years ago, and now he found it very difficult to access the memories of even those recent interactions. He couldn't, he suddenly realized, even sense the demon's _presence_ unless he already knew where he was. He tried now, reached out with his astral mind and searched the area, the neighborhood, the city, the country—nothing. It was as if the demon vanished the moment he was no longer in sight.

He recalled the first report he'd made Upstairs about the Serpent. He saw Gabriel's bored indifference flicker into rage and back again at the mere mention of his having appeared. He heard Gabriel's casual inquiries about the Serpent, the Archangel making him a topic of discussion, however short, at _every single debrief and quarterly review since then_.

And then he looked around at his nearly empty back room, his kitchen door shut tight for years. He looked down at his simple, nondescript, manifested sweater vest and sensible trousers. All evidence of his slowly peeling away every shred of his own individuality in a desperate effort to please Heaven, to make the horrible feeling inside him abate. All of it to absolutely no avail save for a few extra, meaningless 'atta-boy's from his Higher-Ups.

The darkness sat deep within him, the chill ever-present, the vague, unfocused despair floating through it.

What if…what if it _hadn't_ been a ruse? What if all this time, the demon had been trying to tell him that, for whatever reason, something had been _done to them_ , that someone had _put them_ in this state?

And aside from the Powers That Be, who else could _possibly_ have that sort of control over an angel and a demon?

* * *

Crowley wandered home, mentally kicking himself the whole way back. He'd run the entire way there, terrified he'd come to his senses before the thought had a chance to solidify and he'd lose it entirely. Then he'd likely rambled a bunch of nonsense, and frightened the angel half to death, and accomplished nothing. What had he even _said_ to him? Had he managed to even _mention_ the cufflink? Point out the proof that there _must_ be some sort of connection between them? He couldn't remember. His experience of the interaction had only been in brief flashes between blackouts. He only knew the angel had chased him off once again, and he was no better off than he had been.

He blacked out again. When he came to, he was halfway home.

He'd tried to sleep for a couple days, but eventually he gave up altogether and switched to nothing but stimulants. If he was going to be awake, he thought, why not go all-in? He hadn't slept in nine days now, his mind awash in jumbled, disjointed thoughts, hallucinations drifting in and out of his consciousness. Sometimes he would lose chunks of time, either too altered or too tired to continue processing stimuli. But he'd had an epiphany, made connections a more orderly mind couldn't have managed. He was onto something now, he knew it. He had to be onto something.

Another blackout, and then he was home. When he came to, he was sitting on his bed, literally in the middle of shooting up, and he had no idea whether it was an upper or a downer he was feeding into his veins. Not that it much mattered. Not that anything much mattered. He'd figure it out when it kicked in, anyway.

Oh, and there it was. Heroin. Of course. He must have decided it was time to come down.4

He lay back, feeling the wash of chemicals fight it out inside him. He took the opportunity to review what he knew of the situation, what he'd failed to tell the angel.

This memory-loss thing was like the Fall, but it was more than that, more _complete_. And really, that only supported the theory that it was purposeful. Which side had done it? Had they done it to the angel, too? _Why_? And what the Heaven was with the blasted cufflink? He still struggled with the pieces, jostled and twisted them, trying to get them to slide anywhere closer together as they repelled each other like polarized magnets. Honestly, that was yet more proof of some nefarious dealings. It seemed like something was preventing him from thinking about this properly. He'd had to push his mind to the absolute brink just to get this far.

What had they _done_ to him? Regardless of how he felt, he remembered enough about his life that he _knew_ it hadn't always been like this. He used to take great care in his appearance, in his corporeal form's general health. He used to drink for pleasure, drug on occasion, fuck with abandon, abstain with ease. He used to listen to music outside of his blasted car, go to symphonies, to the theater.5 He used to laugh, joke, smile. He used to love this world. He used to be capable of love. Something had changed him so dramatically that he couldn't even recognize himself. He barely remembered himself at all.

He didn't feel right. Obviously he didn't, but this was different. He tried to sit back up and found he couldn't manage it. He considered, distantly, around the time his heart stopped beating out of his chest and leaned much further toward not beating at all, that he might have made a mistake. As the room around him faded and he suddenly found it quite difficult to breathe, he became very sure he'd made a particularly big mistake.

_Well, fuck._

Oh well. It was only a body, he could get another one.  6 The punishment for negligent discorporation wasn't nearly as harsh as a reprimand, and he could use some time away that didn't include outright torture. Maybe this body was part of the problem, anyway. It was so old, maybe there was something the matter with its brain.

Now that he thought about it, this probably hadn't been a mistake at all.

* * *

3\. He hadn't even driven there, his car was nowhere in sight. What in Heaven's name was _happening_? [Back]

4\. He'd accepted it, finally. He was never very good at lying to himself. Fine, so he was a junkie, it was a fact, nothing to be done about it now. It wasn't so bad, there were worse things to be. Not like he was planning on stopping, anyway. [Back]

5\. Though even those memories weren't immune to whatever cancer had taken the rest, spotted with haze where a clear recollection of master playwrights and composers should be. [Back]

6\. The paperwork was a pain, especially if he wanted to keep this form, and after 6000 years, he'd grown somewhat attached to it. But it wasn't too much trouble to bother with, really. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, attempted self-discorporation, Attempted Suicide, Brainwashing, Casual Sex, Denial, Depression, Dissociation, dissociative sex, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, drug overdose, Drug Use, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture, kidnapping, major angst, Mania, minor psychosis, nightmares, physical violence, Psychological Torture, Sleep Deprivation, Stranger Sex, suicidal depression, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, Whump


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### The Ethereal Plane, One Week Later

Beelzebub wasn't looking forward to this meeting. Speaking with Lucifer was never a pleasant experience.

The Morning Star's Fall had been unique, as might be expected. When Lucifer landed on the newly-minted planet below, the ground split,1 and the First Fallen split with it. As punishment for His Pride, the Almighty tried to twist Lucifer's glorious visage into a form of unspeakable horror, but the Seraphim's Will nearly rivaled the Almighty's Herself, and His Vanity did not allow the transformation to go unchallenged. As a result, one being became two - one half retained His beauty and kept His name, while the other became the creature eventually referred to only as Satan, the Adversary.

Lucifer and Satan were not entirely the _same_ entity, but they were not entirely _separate_ entities either. They were two halves of a whole soul. They shared a certain link, knew what the other did, thought, or desired. But they served very different roles in their Dominion. Satan was terrifying. Lucifer was breathtaking. Satan did the dirty work, Lucifer handled the PR. Satan created Hell's Forge, filled the Underworld with searing heat, freezing cold, utter darkness, torture, fear. Lucifer schemed, developed plans, worked machinations on Earth through His Princes. Satan was action, Lucifer was thought.

As such, the two creatures communicated quite differently. Satan was the disciplinarian of the two. His temper was legendary, His mood perpetually dark, His reasoning skills notoriously poor. One didn't meet with Satan, one attended an audience with Him, typically after having been sentenced or summoned to do so. And one rarely ever came back, certainly never unchanged. Lucifer, on the other hand, had something of an open-door policy for His minions. He was happy to speak one-on-one with the demons under His employ, discuss matters of import with them, "talk shop" as it were. He was also completely unpredictable, impulsive, capricious, occasionally inscrutable.

In short, Lucifer may have been the brains of the operation, but He was also a few tines short of a pitchfork.2

The lift door slid open and Beelzebub stepped out, taking a deep breath. _Here we go_. It was never clear what one would find when one entered Lucifer's chambers. Beelzebub had seen any number of things over the years, a simple, heavy wooden door, a curtain of hanging knives, one especially unpleasant scene involving entrails; its form shifted at Lucifer's whim.

Today, Beelzebub pushed past heavy red curtains, revealing silks hanging from the walls and ceiling in reds and pinks and purples, the heavy scent of incense filling the air. Lucifer lounged on a plush divan as a faceless demon massaged His feet.3 When Beelzebub entered the room, He lifted His head and greeted them with a placid, bored expression. All right then, Lucifer was in a romantic, high-drama mood today. This could go either way, really.

Beelzebub knelt before Him, "My Lord-" they began, and Lucifer interrupted immediately.

"No."

It wasn't an angry or even annoyed refusal. It was simply a fact.

"My Lord?"

Lucifer gave them a side-eye, "You want permission to extinct the demon Crowley. I'm telling you no."

Beelzebub hated it when Lucifer read their thoughts. It was so invasive.

"But my Lord, he'z-"

"He's _under My protection_ and you are _not_ going to extinct him."

Lucifer didn't mind being argued with - dissent was how He got down here in the first place, after all. But His Word was still Law. So unless one was able to change His mind on a subject, all the argument in the world was completely useless. Thus why meetings with Him were often like pulling teeth. Without anesthetic.

"My Lord-"

"Ugh, will you _stop_ with that? You are such a bloody stuffed-shirt! _Unclench_ , Beezie, for My sake."

"…what would you prefer?" It was a good thing Lucifer didn't mind His Princes showing some measure of insubordination. Not even a minute in and Beelzebub found it impossible to keep the irritation out of their voice.

Lucifer kicked at the demon at His feet, who scampered off. He sighed and considered a moment, ran a hand through long, raven hair that had, once upon a time, shone bright and golden as the sun.

"I'm feeling like an 'L' today."

Beelzebub screamed internally but managed to keep their outward reaction to an eye-roll.

" _L_ …he'z become much more trouble than he'z worth. He'z been deteriorating for yearz, he'z stopped doing his job entirely, and now he'z managed to dizcorporate himself."

"Really?" Lucifer sat up, intrigued, "How?"

"I believe intake said 'drug overdose'. It's unclear whether it waz intentional."

"Hmm," He sat back again, somewhat disappointed, "I would have expected something grislier. But then, he probably didn't have the stomach for anything else, he always _was_ a sensitive one, poor Crowley."

" _Poor Crowley?!_ He'z a convicted traitor!"

"Well, _technically_ , yes, but he's a demon. Rebellion's in his blood, so to speak, wouldn't you say?" the grin he gave Beelzebub sent chills down their spine, "And really, when you think about it, was his crime all _that_ objectionable? I mean, what did he do, _really_ , other than break a few rules, fudge a few reports?"

" _He fucked an angel!_ "

"Yes, and I let you go ahead with that little Evulsion scheme of yours, didn't I? I don't argue your point about unit cohesion, I just think there are _worse_ things one could do. He didn't even try to _assassinate_ anybody, what sort of a traitor is that?"

"…I've never understood why you're so soft on him," Beelzebub grumbled, and Lucifer chuckled.

"Jealousy is _not_ a good look on you, Beezie."4

"I am not jealouz, I am _confuzed_. He got _one_ big task accomplished, six _thousand_ yearz ago, talked a human into eating some fruit, so _very_ strenuouz, I'm sure. _One_ contribution to the cauze and he'z in your good books for all eternity? He'z not even a very good demon!"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Beezie. He's a _very_ Good demon indeed, that's part of his problem. Listen, I'm only soft on him because _he's_ soft. He's never been cut out for this life, he wasn't Before, he isn't now. Really, I've always thought Her Royal Snootiness only tossed him down here because he clearly didn't fit in up there, and with Purgatory still in the planning stages, there wasn't anywhere else to stick him."

"But if he'z so Good, why don't we juzt extinct him and be done with it?"

"Because I _said so_."

Beelzebub seethed. That wasn't even a typical attitude for Lucifer to hold. He was the _antithesis_ of God. He _answered_ questions, meaningfully. That was one of the reasons so many followed Him willingly. But this was an argument that had been going on since the time leading up to Crowley's trial. They had no idea what could possibly be going on in Lucifer's unfathomable mind, what would possess Him to refuse to listen to reason. Were it any other demon, He would jump at the chance to exercise some visible control, display His power, indulge in some cruelty for cruelty's sake. It wasn't even clear whether this was favoritism or some sort of extra punishment. Clearly, He didn't mind subjecting Crowley to any number of indignities, in many ways treating him no differently than anyone else down here. And yet, he would not allow the demon's destruction. It didn't make any _sense_. But then, Lucifer _rarely_ made much sense to begin with.

"And anyway," Lucifer continued, completely ignoring Beelzebub's contemptuous glare, "He's more useful than you give him credit for. His discontent initiatives alone have netted a lot of long-term gain over the years, the numbers speak for themselves."

"It'z only another way for him to avoid hurting humanz. He _likes_ them! He went native centuriez ago, You _muzt_ be able to see that!"

Lucifer waved the argument away, rolled His eyes, "Augh, I am _bored shitless_ of this conversation! We are not going to waste My time discussing the weaker points of Crowley's personality. Honestly, I don't know what you're complaining about! He was tried, he was punished, he's serving his sentence. And with impressive results, I might add. A drug-addicted demon! Well done, truly, I'm sure he's making a big impression up there, cautionary tale and all that."

"But he'z _down here_ now, sanz-body, taking up space and wasting resourcez. He'z only got so long down in holding, what am I suppozed to do with him after that, give him a job in the mail room?"

Lucifer frowned, "No, of course not, give him another body and send him back up."

"Yes, that'z the plan, but what do I do in the meantime?"

Lucifer gave them an incredulous look, "Did I not just tell you?"

Beelzebub gave Him an incredulous look right back, "What, _now_? Hiz waiting period only juzt started! Body-fab's got a backlog half a century long!"

"Expedite it. Refurb the old one if you need to. His sentence is to be carried out on Earth, he stays on Earth."

"And if he dizcorporates again?"

"Then you send him back up again, what about this is difficult to understand?"

" _For how long?_ "

" _Until._ "

Beelzebub glared at their Lord for a long moment, took a deep breath, and stood down.

"Fine."

"Oh come now, Beezie, don't look so glum! We're talking about _one_ demon out of the _millions_ you've got to torture down here, your life is not so dreadful as all that. Besides, you got what you wanted! You wanted to see him suffer, he's suffering, sending him back up is only going to make it worse. Everybody wins!" He gave an offhanded shrug, "Except Crowley, of course."

"…I _wanted_ to _extinct_ him," Beelzebub muttered under their breath, though the wilting look Lucifer gave them said He heard anyway.

* * *

1\. From a single landmass into several continents, in fact. [Back]

2\. As coined by an unfortunate demon who had their _own_ audience with Satan soon after Lucifer discovered they'd been the one to say it. [Back]

3\. The demon was quite literally faceless, the look of it must have displeased Him. [Back]

4\. Every time He used the diminutive, Beelzebub cringed a little more. Which was, of course, exactly why He kept using it. [Back]

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, A Few Floors Above

Crowley slouched in the waiting room, bored out of his skull. Well, out of his mind, at least. He didn't have a skull at the moment.

The waiting room was small, bland, and dingy, crowded with other bored, miserable spirits awaiting a new human-like shell. Tinny, crackling speakers spat out intermittent bursts of music, shitty smooth-jazz covers of shitty one-hit-wonders.5 The chair he sat in was distinctly uncomfortable, which was quite a feat of demonic engineering considering he didn't currently have any actual sensory apparatus.

The waiting room was, of course, the punishment for having allowed one's physical body to expire. He knew he could expect to wait right here in one of these impossibly uncomfortable chairs, listening to an alto saxophone whine _Muskrat Love_ at him for, easily, another twenty or thirty years _at least_. He'd been here a week and he was already madder than when he got here.

And really, that was the worst part. He was now certain his body had absolutely _nothing_ to do with any part of his predicament. The sleep deprivation wasn't an issue, of course, and without a body to process the drugs he was constantly on, he was able to think more clearly than he had in years. But he was still miserable and distant, the void still dominating his very being, the despair even sharper without the distraction of physicality. He found that even without a physical dependency, even without any means of transmission, he would still strangle every single demon the room for a hit right now. He longed for the tingling warmth of the cufflink, the comfortable familiarity of the bookshop wall. There was no way to escape from himself here, nothing to sooth or distract him, and now he didn't even have a way back until they gave him one, at their own whim and on their own time.

The office door opened, and a clerk with an off-kilter necktie lazily perused the clipboard in his hand.

"Crowley," he said with all the enthusiasm of a post office employee ten minutes to closing time.

Crowley jumped at the sound of his name. He looked around, almost certain he'd discover there was some other demon down here using his name. But no one budged, and he didn't know what to do. They shouldn't be calling him so soon. What did they _want_?

"Erk," he stood up awkwardly, still glancing around as if someone would give him an out, "yeah, er- here?"

The clerk gave him a blank, bored stare that did not change at all as he approached.

"…What?" Crowley said and the clerk rolled his eyes and walked away from him, down the hallway.

He led him to a small office, opened the door, shoved him inside and slammed the door behind him. A desk sat in the room, piled several feet high with papers. Crowley sat in the chair facing it and found the papers split down the middle, forming a sort of window, behind which sat a tired, haggard looking demon who seemed just as miserable to be there as he was.

The case worker sighed. Crowley sighed. They looked at each other, shared a brief, silent moment of understanding about their shared situation, then the case worker flicked her wrist and a piece of paper slid out from one of the stacks and floated down to her hand. She read it over, set it down, and slid it to Crowley's side of the desk.

"Sign here," she said, indifferent.

Crowley squinted at her. She looked at him expectantly.

"What…am I signing, exactly?"

She let out a much longer, more put-upon sigh, "Your recorporation release. You've been cleared to return to Earth."

No. That didn't make any sense _at all_. Even if he _were_ being recorporated this soon, which was next to impossible, the paperwork for recorporation was _notorious_. He could expect to be filling out forms, and duplicates of those forms, and forms to verify he'd filled those forms, and long-form depositions, and personality questionnaires, and formal letters of apology, for _days_. Possibly _weeks_. A single signature on a single piece of paper? Utterly impossible.

"Right, yeah, ok," he said anyway, because this was clearly some sort of elaborate hallucination and it was very possible he was, at this very moment, slipping into an OD coma, so he might as well go with it.

He traced the sigil of his true name onto the dotted line with one finger, and watched as the glow faded into a dark red mark. He looked up at the case worker, who pulled the paper back and flicked it upwards. It nestled into the other stack at an awkward angle. The case worker pointed at the door he'd come through.

"Transport's to the left, end of the hall. Have a crap day."

Crowley stood, walked to the door, then turned back.

"Hey, er…any idea what the new body's like?"

The case worker rolled her eyes, flicked the paper back into her hand, and looked it over.

"Huh…somebody Downstairs must be looking out for you. They've refurbished your original model."

Crowley really didn't relish the idea of anybody Downstairs having any sort of complex or sustained thought about him at all, actually.

"Who uh…who authorized that? Just curious."

The case worker glanced back down at the paper and for the first time since Crowley entered the room, she wore an expression that was not some form of irritation or boredom. It was, in fact, a worrying mixture of surprise, awe, and fear. She looked up at him.

"…This one goes all the way to the Bottom…" she said, and if Crowley had a throat, it would have gone dry.

He nodded, distantly, "Right. Right, thanks…"

He wandered out the door and down the hallway, confused and horrified. Why had Lucifer Himself authorized his immediate recorporation? What did it mean that he was on Lucifer's radar at all?

He did know one thing it meant - discorporation might not be the escape he thought it would. If Downstairs was committed to keeping him on Earth, he might need to start thinking about something a bit more...permanent.

* * *

5\. He liked jazz, generally, so he was really quite proud of shitty smooth-jazz covers. But like so many things he'd had a hand in, they were now torturing _him_ right along with everyone else. [Back]

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, Significantly Higher Up

Aziraphale stood in Heaven's lobby, troubled and suspicious, but still uncertain. The receptionist did not acknowledge him in the slightest, providing reassurance that at least _some_ of his life was predictably stable. Aside from that, he felt rather at-sea. He didn't want to believe that the Serpent was correct, that Heaven could possibly have anything whatsoever to do with the awful turn his life had taken. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the demon was right, and he had to know. He just had to. This meeting was already scheduled, so he'd taken the week to compose himself, think about everything he'd been through the past few years. Really, it only served to inch him a bit further toward paranoia. He still felt entirely unprepared. The doors swung open, and Aziraphale was moving before the voice had even finished beckoning him in.

Gabriel stood in the usual place, smiled the usual not-smile. But this time Aziraphale found himself questioning every motion, every detail of the room, scant though they were.

"Hey, there he is! Aziraphale! How's Earth treating you?"

Aziraphale had always heard the condescension in Gabriel's voice whenever they spoke. It was a matter of course, he'd trained himself to ignore it millennia ago. But today he heard something else there, as well. It was subtle, extremely subtle, he would never have noticed if he weren't looking for it. But Gabriel's tone wasn't only one of condescension, dismissal of who and what Aziraphale was. That tone included _malice_. That wasn't a state of being he thought any angel could inhabit, certainly not an _Archangel_. But it was there, he wasn't imagining it, it was most pronounced when he said his name. Gabriel didn't just dislike him. Gabriel _hated_ him.

What had he ever done that could possibly warrant _hatred_? Did the _other_ Archangels feel this way?

He realized he hadn't answered Gabriel's question and cleared his throat, "Ah, fine, thanks. Everything's just tickity-boo." He hoped his efforts to keep his face neutral were working.

"Great to hear it, look, this won't take long, we haven't got a lot to cover this time around. Just uh, one thing…" Gabriel flipped through some papers in his hand and Aziraphale found himself wondering if they were props, "Looks like you had a visitor last week. Report says the Serpent approached you just outside your shop, you had some sort of conversation?"

 _Oh no no no no no shit shit shit shit shit._ "Ah, I wouldn't go so far as to call it a _conversation_. I saw him out there, I chased him off, nothing new there."

"Yeah, see our records show you spoke with it for a couple of _minutes_ before it left. No raised voices, no threats, you just…talked to it. What were you talking about?"

This was significantly more detailed information than Gabriel usually had about his interactions with the Serpent. Did he have a closer eye trained on him than usual? _Why_?

"Not much of anything, really," Aziraphale said, and in some ways, it was the truth, "He was quite incoherent and I was caught off-guard. I certainly don't have anything to say to him, and I don't know what he wanted from me. I didn't think it was worth reporting, frankly, he doesn't seem particularly stable."

"All the more reason you've been advised not to engage, so I have to say, I'm disappointed you haven't heeded that advice."

"I understand, but…forgive me, I feel I must ask…have you any idea why would the Serpent attempt to speak to me in the first place? In all this time, we've never interacted before, why would he suddenly take an interest in the past few decades? Why _me_ , why _now_?"

"It's impossible to guess the motivations of a servant of Hell, you know that. It's likely the Serpent is trying to keep you guessing, confuse you. The thing was able to convince humanity to disobey the Almighty by just talking to them, it's a master of deception. The fact that you're second-guessing anything is proof that it's dangerous."

Aziraphale fought himself a great deal to keep from asking the thing he wanted to ask next. Eventually, he lost the fight. Very, very badly.

"What's so _dangerous_ about this Serpent, anyway?" He inwardly cringed the moment it came out, but he couldn't stop himself, "He's been hanging about for years, and he's never done _anything_ except loiter around my storefront and fail to express a complete thought. And for that matter, why _didn't_ we ever meet in Eden? How _have_ we managed to avoid each other's notice for six millennia? Why didn't you _warn me_ he was living in London in the first place, how didn't you already _know_ , it doesn't make any _sense!_ "

Aziraphale didn't even need to wait for Gabriel's uncomfortably long silence before he regretted saying anything at all. He'd been avoiding questions for a long time for just this reason. He hadn't been sure he could stop asking once he'd started. And any question he asked might, in some ineffable way, be a form of questioning the Almighty's Great Plan. But questions that included words like 'why', and 'what's so dangerous' were especially risky, not to mention questioning the Archangels' knowledge or actions. There was no way to know what questions would or wouldn't be considered blasphemy - the definition changed quite often, anyway.

He was suddenly gripped by the fear that he'd been wrong, that he'd been Falling all this time after all, and this was it, this was the final nail. He half-expected the floor to crumble away at his feet.

But the floor didn't budge. Nothing did. Gabriel simply stood and stared (no, _glared_ ) at him, unable to fully cover his rage (there it was again) at Aziraphale's questions. And really, that was all the confirmation Aziraphale needed. It finally hit him - if Aziraphale were truly Falling, Gabriel wouldn't be angry. _Gabriel would be sad_.

He would be grieving a Brother, a Fallen soldier. That had been the feeling just after the first Fall, as the War really began in earnest. Every angel in the Host felt the Almighty's sorrow, and had no choice but to react in-kind. It was how they were built. Throughout his life on Earth, he'd always known when someone Fell, because for just a moment, he'd be overcome by that same overwhelming sadness, the grief of the Almighty's mourning for Her lost child, the heartache of enforcing Her Divine Will, showing Her terrible Love in releasing a betrayer from Her fold.

So the Archangel's outraged, not remotely Loving expression told him that this awful life he'd found himself living _couldn't_ be Falling. This was _not_ the Almighty's Will. This was _Gabriel's_ will. Perhaps it was only him, perhaps some or all of the other Archangels were in on it, but what did it matter? Aziraphale could see it now, clear as day, and there was no un-seeing it. Gabriel knew _exactly_ what was happening to him, perhaps to the Serpent as well, and _it was what he wanted to happen_. He might have had a hand in it, if not caused it entirely. And he was _furious_ at being questioned about it.

And that meant Aziraphale had _absolutely_ made a terrible, dangerous mistake.

Gabriel eventually spoke, his voice a pot of still water one jostle away from boiling, "Do I need to spell out to you why those questions are not yours to ask?"

"No," Aziraphale said quickly, "No, forgive me. Forgive me, I forget myself."

"Yes. You do."

"I only…I only want to understand…" _Shut up!_ he thought desperately, _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Gabriel's eyes began to glow the eerie blue-white of Holy fire. All artifice of congeniality vanished, replaced with Righteous indignation, "You're on very thin aether, _Principality_.6 Your role is not to _understand_. Your role is to _obey_. You Will Not question the Judgment of the Almighty or the Authority of her Hands. Your Life and your Grace are gifts from the Lord your God and _gifts can be withdrawn, do you understand me_?"

Aziraphale nodded, terrified into silence.

"SAY IT!" His voice was a thunderclap through the mostly-empty room.

"I…I understand," he could barely get the words out, and they were nearly a whisper.

"You will return to Earth. You will do your job unquestioningly and unfailingly. You will not even _think_ about questioning your Lord again, you will SMITE THAT DAMNED SERPENT the next time you see it, and if you manage to keep from disappointing us we might consider allowing you to keep the station you have been granted. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes," he was shaking, eyes brimming with tears, "I understand, I'm sorry, I'm-"

And then he was back on Earth, standing in a building that was once his greatest refuge, but was now almost a sort of prison, the shelves barer every day, the personality ( _his personality_ ) drained from every corner. Aziraphale made it four dazed steps before he sank to the floor and collapsed into helpless, terrified sobs.

* * *

6\. Gabriel was mocking him. Aziraphale had been a Principality once, in the time Before, during the War, and in the Garden. But that rank had left him with his sword. He'd never been formally demoted to Guardian, but without the sword, the symbol which proved his Divine Right to a rank above the Archangels, he'd lived the role all the same, all this time. He had no Right to challenge them. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me a bit, turns out Lucifer is a talker, heh. Anyway, expect big things next chapter, there are changes afoot!
> 
> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, Denial, Depression, Dissociation, drug overdose, Gaslighting, major angst, Psychological Torture, suicidal depression, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, Whump


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, life is determined to intervene, it seems. Still, I'm working hard at the next chapter, which should come a bit sooner, I think. *fingers crossed*
> 
> This chapter is long, I anticipate the next one will be too.
> 
> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### London, 1975

Crowley flexed his hands. It felt good to have hands, a neck to roll, legs to stretch. He gave his body a quick test-drive, made a loop around his flat. He shifted into snake form and slithered another lap around before pouring himself back into a human shape. He took a look at himself in the bedroom mirror.

"Huh," he muttered, "Not bad, really. Bit shabby, could stand to smarten up a bit."

He adjusted the length of his hair, removed the stubble from his chin. He summoned a new pair of shades into his hand and slid them on.

"There you are, handsome devil. Been a while."

He smirked at himself. For a short time, a few seconds maybe, he felt…okay. Not good, certainly, but…all right. Better than he had in years. But then he caught the reflection of a glint over his shoulder and turned to look at the bed.

The cufflink sat innocuously on the blanket, letting off that same soft, holy glow. Beside it sat his fixing kit and a still mostly-full baggie of brown powder, needle carelessly dropped to the side, tie-off still knotted, looped around nothing. He stared, thought about the way his body must have simply vanished from the spot, leaving behind any Earthly material, when Hell whisked it away for refurbishment.

His brand new insides ached at the feeling of the void already gnawing at him, increasing his internal gravity. A black hole, intent on destroying any last remnants of his soul.

He should walk away. He shouldn't fall back into old habits so quickly. He should give his plants a once-over, maybe take a drive, get some fresh air, go see whether the angel will talk to him. He shouldn't keep the cufflink to himself, jealously guard the tiny crutch he'd leaned on for so long. He should take advantage of this chance to start fresh. He _absolutely should not_ sit right back down on his bed, in the same spot where he'd overdosed only a few days ago, and shoot up again.

He was never very good at doing what he should, and even worse at avoiding what he shouldn't.

* * *

Aziraphale locked the shop door from the outside, for the first time that he could ever remember. He looked over the shuttered shop windows, and tried so very hard to feel anything other than devastated. He couldn't bring himself to sell the shop altogether, sell the rest of the books, to let go of that last vestige of sin, Lord forgive him. But he could at least close it down. Shut the doors and stay away from the temptation of those Earthly pleasures. Spend his time among the humans he was charged with guiding. Try hard to redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors.

It was only a matter of days before Aziraphale had shifted his thinking on that disastrous meeting with Gabriel. He'd managed to conclude, in fact, that the incident had been entirely his fault. He'd driven Gabriel to anger with his careless disrespect, his ingratitude. Of course the Archangel reacted the way he had, Aziraphale was lucky it hadn't been any worse.

Gabriel, he rationalized, must have Good reason to treat him the way he did. Because Gabriel was Good. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had rarely ever been Good. He'd _done_ good, surely, performed quiet miracles, nudged humanity toward the Lord's command, but as an angel? He was an all-around failure. That was clear to him now. He'd only ever been a complete disappointment to Heaven, hadn't he? Hadn't everyone always made that perfectly obvious?

And at some point, he had clearly become such a spectacular disappointment that Heaven had no choice but to attempt to fix him, rather than allow him to Fall. If Heaven had truly done this thing to him, it must have been out of Love. There was no other reason Heaven did anything. They must have taken the parts that sullied him, cut out the rotten bits and salvaged what they could, to make him a better servant of the Lord. And such an effort, from a place of Divine Love, must be Right. And Right must, necessarily, be Good.

The state he now found himself in, the chilling despair, the aching emptiness inside him, the countless holes in his memory, must all be for his own Good. It _must_. He struggled to see it, but he was _trying_. He _had to_ make himself see it. What other choice did he have? Risk Heaven's wrath, risk truly Falling? No, he'd made far too much trouble already. He would simply put the Serpent and his lies aside, and concentrate on what was important, what was True.

No matter how much the thought made him want to Stop Existing entirely.

* * *

#### London, 1976

Aziraphale made it a good seven months before he found himself sneaking back into his own bookshop. It was occasional at first, but now he spent weeks at a time locked inside, pouring over his precious treasures with care. It was a secret, shameful thing, this activity that had once brought him only immense pleasure and comfort. It very nearly felt like a sort of addiction. But there was a kind of thrill in getting away with it, in keeping it from Gabriel during his reviews.

Today, Aziraphale sat in his shop, shutters closed, a modest cup of tea in hand,1 having just cracked open a French copy of Voltaire's _Lettres philosophiques sur les Anglais_. As he peeled back the front cover, a slip of paper slid out. He picked it up, barely looking at it, clearly some kind of sales slip or-

He did a double-take and looked closer.

Aziraphale,

Just about finished mucking about in Paris, thought I'd send this along. Obviously the 1734 edition's the real prize, but I found a 1793. Figured you'd appreciate the symbolism. Try not to lose your head over it, angel.  
~Me

p.s. Sunday brunch? La Brasserie Anglais on Hampstead has crepes to die for, apparently. Rendezvous point 2 at 11?

The handwriting was entirely unfamiliar. Who had sent it? What did 1793 have to do with anything? Was it some sort of code? It seemed there were layers of meaning in these scant few sentences that he couldn't grasp. Had he…hang on, was that the year he was very nearly discorporated because he'd _gone to Paris for crepes?_

How…had he managed to escape that one, again? He…didn't recall. _Couldn't_ recall.

There was a squiggly sort of doodle next to the signature. Was that…a snake? What could that possibly mean? He was having a great deal of trouble parsing any of this, as though his mind were trying to force ill-fitting puzzle pieces together. It was a very odd, unique sensation. Trying to think it over nearly felt like…like trying to understand the Serpent's name.

Oh. _OH!_

Well what in Heaven's name did _that_ mean? Could it truly be possible that the _Serpent_ had written him this note? _Given him this book?_ Had he accepted a _gift_ from a _demon_? If nothing else, this might-well prove they had met before. He read the note a few dozen more times.

 _Rendezvous point 2_. As in multiple rendezvous points. With the _Serpent_.

Well that could mean any number of things, really. But one thing it certainly seemed to suggest was they had not only met, they _were meeting_. Habitually. Why? Also, _La Brasserie Anglais_ closed nearly a century ago, how far back did this…acquaintanceship go?

 _The Serpent was in the Garden_ , he thought, _And I don't remember him_.

How many other notes like this? How many other little clues were hidden away in this place? How many had he inadvertently sold already?

The Serpent, he suddenly realized, hadn't been by since the time he managed to convince Aziraphale that there might be something going on, even while manic and rambling. He couldn't begin to guess what had happened since, and considering the state the demon had been in the last time they spoke, he half-worried the poor thing had discorporated.

The note wasn't as easily put aside as his own self-doubt. This appeared to be _physical evidence_ that the Serpent was right. He had to find him. He had no clue how to find him, certainly not without Heaven discovering that he was looking.

Except…

He rushed to the front counter and rooted around for the single piece of paper which held telephone numbers he could be bothered to record (mostly takeaway, actually), rooted further for his actual telephone, picked up the receiver, and dialed.

After a few rings, a delicate feminine voice answered, "Hello?"

"Ah, yes, I would like to speak to Sergeant Shadwell please. I have an assignment for him."

"Just a moment."

Some shuffling and knocking and shouts of "Mister Shadwell!" and "Awa' wi' ye, harlot!" and such ensued, and Aziraphale waited patiently for the whole usual rigmarole to be over. He knew the Sergeant would come to the phone, eventually.

Shadwell wasn't the most…stable of people, he was well aware of this. But he was steadfast and loyal, and that counted for something. Heaven had been donating to the Witchfinder Army, through Aziraphale, for centuries now. He really didn’t donate very much, but it was nice to think he was helping along the forces of Good in even the slightest way, and he always got a very nice card at the end of the year.

And even if it seemed the Witchfinder Army wasn't particularly…fruitful in its endeavors over the past three hundred years or so, it was still an organization dedicated to tracking down the forces of Evil. And of course, Aziraphale was desperate to find one _particular_ force of Evil, without it getting back to his superiors. Really, this was the only thing he could come up with in the moment.

"Ayup," Shadwell eventually said gruffly into the receiver.

"Sergeant," Aziraphale replied, polite but somewhat stiff, "This is Mister Fell."

"Whozzat now?"

Aziraphale sighed, "Mister Ezra Fell, the Witchfinder Army's benefactor?"

"Ahhh, 'course, sor, how can I help ye?"

"I believe I may have an assignment for you."

"Aye?"

"I believe I have encountered an agent of the Devil here in London, and I need your help to track him down."

"Witch then, izze?"

"Er, actually I believe he may be some sort of demon."

"Witch's consort, then? Aye, that's a bit outside our area, if ye ken, yer honer."

"Well, certainly where there are demons, witches cannot be far behind, yes?"

Shadwell considered this a moment, "Aye…aye, tha's a fair point there. Didja happen to count this fella's nipples?"

Aziraphale suppressed a grimace. The Sergeant's nipple obsession was as inscrutable as it was distasteful. But if it would garner results…

"Oh, more than is strictly necessary, I'm sure."

"Aye, tha's enuff fer us. What d'ye know about this cur, then?"

 _Significantly less than I would like_ , Aziraphale caught himself thinking, then banished that thought, and launched into a description.

* * *

1\. Another illicit thrill, alongside the single biscuit sitting on his saucer and the physical, non-manifested ring placed back on his finger, and the 70 year old suit he'd comfortably slipped back on a few weeks ago.[Back]

* * *

#### London, 1978

Crowley blinked awake, groggy from the effects of the transport. Another failed discorporation attempt, the same result every time.

He hadn't been able to muster up the courage to attempt anything real just yet. He thought about it a lot. Daydreamed about exorcism, taking a nice, long sip of holy water, lying down on consecrated ground and just…staying there until he combusted. But something inside him couldn't allow him to do it. Demon or not, he hadn't lost his sense of self-preservation, and suicidal depression or no, it was doing its job just fine.

So he would discorporate sometimes. He knew it wasn't a permanent solution, but there were times things became…too much. It had become a routine, a constant cycle of discorporation, recorporation, falling immediately back into old habits, discorporating again be it accidentally or on purpose.2

He'd been testing Hell, really. Trying a multitude of different methods, each time hoping they'd just…leave him be. Give up on him, leave him to stew in the waiting room for the rest of eternity. He thought they couldn't possibly just keep sending him back up.

They just kept sending him back up.

But this time, something was different. He knew it the moment he woke up. He felt…well, perhaps the word was weakened? He wasn't entirely sure what physical weakness was supposed to feel like, but given the general description, he thought that might be what he was feeling. Something about him felt fragile and exposed, even more than usual, and much more physical than psychological. He looked around. He was in his study. Nothing off about the room, though it was a bit more tatty than in years' past - he didn't see a point in bothering to clean up anymore. Then he looked down at himself, and his face slowly twisted into a scowl.

"Oh, _fuck you_!" he spat as he surveyed what they'd done to him.

_Those bastards. Those devious, spiteful, cruel bastards._

He was shirtless, as he had been during the last discorporation. And his skin was _covered_ in tattoos. Lines, black and red and sickly green and charcoal gray, arranged into complex symbols and languages: Infernal, Sanskrit, Ancient Hebrew, Ancient Greek, Enochian, Celestial, some he didn't even _recognize_ , lacing over his chest, along his arms, around his wrists, down his sides, probably across his back.

Bindings. He was absolutely _covered_ in Bindings. He had been Bound.

They'd cut him off from his demonic power. He no longer had that secure vein of occult strength thrumming along his tether to Hell. He was still tethered, he hadn't been set free, of course they wouldn't do him such a favor. But it was a one-way connection. They could hold onto him, draw him down if they needed to, but he could draw nothing up from them.

And of course, he'd had no idea it was coming.

There was no mistaking what was going on at this point. Every cynical guess he'd had over the years about his state of being now proved to be utterly correct. This was his own, personal Hell on Earth, courtesy of Lucifer himself. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such a fate, but he knew his Lower Downs were punishing him. And the trouble he'd been making for them lately prompted them to make the punishment _worse_. Put him on restriction like some misbehaving teenager.

He concentrated, tried to tap into any shred of power he might have left. He found he could still revert to serpent form if need-be, so at least they hadn't taken that from him. Though, as it was a physical manifestation of his true form, perhaps they couldn't. He shifted back to human shape and as-expected, he remained Bound.

He reached out with his astral mind and had a look around. He could sense humans just fine, no change there. He could still do the job he'd been avoiding for decades. But other occult beings? Only the faintest of impressions, no recognition, no idea who he was sensing, or how close anyone, _anything_ was. Wonderful. That made him significantly more vulnerable to ambush.

He tried to summon something into his hand: a bottle, a pair of specs, the syringe on his nightstand - nothing. He thought about being in another room and…stayed precisely where he was.

"FUCK!!"

He punched the wall next to him and oh, it _hurt_. It hurt in a way he hadn't ever experienced before. Was this what pain _actually felt like_ , without the cushion of his power softening the blow? The sensation spread across his knuckles, radiated in sharp tendrils down the back of his hand. He flexed his fingers and marveled, half-fascinated, half-disturbed, at the way the feeling changed as he moved. He glared at his hand, as though the fury itself would temper the pain somehow. It didn't.

A wave of hopeless despair engulfed him, the strongest feeling he'd had in months. He leaned his back against the wall, slid to the floor, his face in his hands.

 _Just end it_ , he thought desperately at himself, _Just make it stop. It might not even hurt. It might go so quick you won't even know it's happened. And who cares if it does? It won't for long. End it, you coward! Every moment you go on existing, they win! Can't you see that? Are you truly so weak and stupid as to pass up the only chance you have left to seize control of your life?_

But the lure of existence was powerful, not to mention the inertia of it all. He'd existed longer than not, and longer than most. He'd known many forms, many realms, many planes of existence. But non-existence was not one of them. And the thought of _no more thoughts_ was still utterly horrifying to contemplate.

"Not yet," he muttered, "Not yet."

He forced himself to his feet, lurched down the hallway, past a gallery of brown, shriveled, long-dead plants - a shrine to his own failure. He wasn't even holding onto them out of any sort of sentimentality, he just couldn't be bothered to throw them out. Seemed a bit too much effort, really. He didn't even notice them, not anymore. Whatever they may have represented for him once, they meant nothing to him now, just like everything else.

He wandered into his bedroom, accompanied by his constant internal monologue of self-loathing.

_Pathetic, useless, weak, coward, that's right, go get high, go hide behind a needle, play at being human when you know you're worse than they'll ever be, humans can be redeemed, humans can be saved, humans can change, can't they? But not you, not a useless pathetic junkie demon, you deserve this, you deserve worse, you deserve death, you deserve to die-_

The heroin rush drowned out the hateful litany, at least temporarily. He closed his eyes. The high was more powerful than ever; it seemed being Bound wasn't all bad. He doubted he'd spend even a moment sober now.

That his supply would eventually run out and he would need to find a non-occult way to get more would only occur to him days later, after it was already gone. And really, he would later think, it was a good thing he'd already lost any respect for himself. Because as it turned out, the things he was willing to do to get more could be…quite unpleasant.3

* * *

2\. Though he wasn't entirely sure anymore whether any of them were actually accidental, and that didn’t even include the three instances that had nothing whatsoever to do with drugs. [Back]

3\. Less so than perhaps they could have been, as the Bindings left his temptation skills intact and his powers of persuasion were still quite strong. But even then, some ways of achieving one's goals were inherently more...distasteful than others. [Back]

* * *

#### London, 1983

Safe Harbor was one of Aziraphale's favorite shelters to frequent, and not only because it was a mere two blocks from his shop. The place was run and staffed by some dedicated members of Soho's leftist counter-culture and frankly, they were doing some of the best work in the city. 4 Safe Harbor offered a homeless shelter, domestic violence shelter, halfway house, addiction recovery referral services - name a population in need, they did their best to accommodate them. 

Aziraphale always had a project here, always a way to keep his mind off his own sorrows. He hummed to himself as he served up supper alongside the other volunteers. Even when his world seemed far more hopeless than not, this sort of work always brought him a measure of joy. He was feeling a rare optimism today. This event was the most successful yet. If this turnout kept up all day, he may have to conjure up another pot of soup.

In recent years, their regular clientele were in increasing danger of the latest plague visited upon humankind. He didn't know which side was responsible, but he strongly suspected Below, no matter how many of the Lord's faithful seemed all too eager to claim it in Her name. This plague was concentrated among some of humanity's most vulnerable, as so many of them tended to be. And as was typical, humanity had managed to find a scapegoat in those most thoroughly afflicted. Even Medical Science was dragging its feet, which seemed to Aziraphale both especially egregious in this era of modern medicine, and entirely counter-productive, given the way these things tended to go, long-term. The body count was already rising at an alarming rate, and he dreaded to think what the future held if they didn't get their act together soon. News was, the situation in America was significantly worse already; there were stories of people dropping dead in the streets for the first time in nearly a century.

Safe Harbor was generally in the business of caring for the very people most affected by this scourge anyway. So at Aziraphale's subtle encouragement, the shelter was doing its part to alleviate the strain on the general community. The shelter already provided a wide range of health & welfare services year-round: education, testing, community resources, prevention, even some cutting-edge harm reduction initiatives.5 But awareness events like the one held today were essentially part community outreach, part open house, with all of their usual services and more advertised to the general public.

The shelter was one of the most frequented and utilized in the city, and understandably, local religious institutions had begun to take notice.6 Safe Harbor itself was strictly secular, but their leadership understood that spirituality was just as important a resource as other forms of care, and allowed those faiths and denominations amenable to the shelter's general politics to provide limited services in partnership. At today's event, a local UCC minister (a woman, how wonderfully refreshing!) was in residence, providing a number of services. This morning she'd held a seminar on faith and absolution, and was now providing baptisms to any who felt moved to partake.

Aziraphale had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, leading another soul toward the Lord was, obviously, the right course of action. On the other, well…while all services offered at Safe Harbor were strictly voluntary, it seemed to him there was something a bit dodgy about catching people at their lowest point and offering up the Lord as an easy solution. It wasn't necessarily coercive, strictly speaking, but he always felt the baptisms which arose out of this sort of situation had an air of impulsiveness that made him a bit…itchy. Baptism was a decision humans should make with a clear head and a ready heart, two things which Safe Harbor's general population tended to lack, for understandable reasons. Baptism was a commitment of one's eternal soul, not a New Year's Resolution, for Her sake, it was not something to be taken lightly.

He pondered this as he looked across the room at the growing line of soon-to-be initiates. Despite his misgivings, he felt a swell of compassion at the plight of the unfortunate souls awaiting salvation. Some were in various stages of illness, others shook with drug withdrawal, or swayed in drugged or drunken hazes. A pair of junkies toward the front of the line clung to each other as though one might fall if he let go of the other. His gaze lingered on those two. There was something odd about them, something not quite right. He took a closer look...and dropped his serving spoon, eyes wide as saucers.

One of them wasn't _human_. How had he missed that? …oh. Oh dear.

_You poor thing, it's no wonder Shadwell never managed to find you. How long have you been on the street, I wonder?_

The Serpent leaned listlessly against his human companion, head leaned into his shoulder. He was barely recognizable, Aziraphale might never have identified him on human sight alone. He looked, with no hint of irony, like Hell. His mismatched clothes, filthy and ragged, hung oversized and loose over his sickly, emaciated frame. His tangled, greasy hair hung long, well past his shoulders, fringe hanging over his exposed, half-lidded eyes. He wore no sunglasses, and his eyes were sunken, their deep-gold paled to a sickly yellow that filled every bit of visible space. And the _look_ in them, that blank stare, passionless, emotionless. There was no _life_ in those eyes. In all the years Aziraphale had encountered him, he'd never once more closely resembled his own kind; he looked like a _demon_.

He was so shocked at seeing the Serpent after all these years, and in such a state, that for a few moments he didn't put two and two together. It was only after the minister dunked the head of her newest parishioner into the shallow basin of _holy water_ behind her, that he realized what was happening.

The Serpent was committing suicide. He was going to extinct himself at the hands of an unsuspecting Servant of the Lord doing her best to bring solace to those in need.

Aziraphale knew what holy water did to demons, though it had been several hundred years since he'd seen such a banishment. In any case, he knew it wasn't pretty, nor particularly difficult to miss. He couldn't just stand by and allow it to happen. He couldn't watch the Serpent destroy himself, demon or no. And he _certainly_ couldn't allow the sort of mass panic that would inevitably spark when the creature who looked like a man melted away in the minister's hands, in front of a crowd of onlookers.

Before he even realized what he was doing, before he could even _consider_ what to do, he was moving. He approached the Serpent, who barely seemed to register him at all, eyes drawn more to movement than to any sort of recognition. He grabbed the demon's wrist, eliciting a vague, "Oi!" from his friend, but if anything else was said, he didn't hear it, because in the next moment he and the Serpent were standing inside his bookshop.

* * *

Only once they had landed did Aziraphale realize that a miracle of such magnitude would most definitely alert Heaven, and might in fact include very precise details. In the moment, however, he didn't much care. He was far more concerned with the situation at hand. He had _found_ the Serpent, and managed to stop him from destroying himself before they could get to the bottom of the mystery that had tied them together, haunted them both for so long. For the first time in decades, he felt some measure of actual hope, and it was _exhilarating_.

"All right," Aziraphale said, half to himself and half to the Serpent, "Given that we'll likely have Heaven's ethereal breath down our necks in a matter of days, or possibly hours, we need to act fast."

"Erng-?" The demon was clearly in no state to parse any bit of what was currently happening. That wouldn't do, they both needed clear heads if they were going to get anywhere. Aziraphale fired off another miracle.

"Do pull yourself together, dear boy."

The Serpent became much more alert, his drifting eyes coming into focus. He took in his surroundings, realized where he was, and looked back at Aziraphale in sheer, unmitigated panic. He grabbed for Aziraphale, who stepped quickly away, suddenly regretting just about every decision he'd ever made that led him to this point.

"Take me back," the demon said urgently, desperately, "No, no, take me back, I was so _close_ I- I have to- you can't- I can't- _take me back!"_

"I will do no such thing," Aziraphale said, with more calm than he felt, "And neither will you."

"Did you…" the demon looked around again, his panic shifting rapidly to fury, " _Why am I sober_?" 

"I needed to speak with you, and you were in no condition to do so."

"Of all the presumptuous…did you think I'd thank you for _abducting_ me? Dragging me back here, cleaning me up like some charity project? You have _no right_ -"

" _You_ ," Aziraphale tapped into a bit of his own anger, "have no right to subject an unsuspecting crowd of innocent humans to the sight of a demonic extinction!"

The Serpent scoffed, "Innocent! _Innocent!?_ There hasn't been an innocent human since the fucking _Garden_ , has there? I made sure of that, didn't I? 'Be a good little toady, do what's expected of you, go up there and make trouble, do your part for the Great fucking Plan, set humanity up for their pre-destined Fall and take _all_ the blame for the rest of eternity', that _was_ me, wasn't it? Isn't that what I was made for? _Isn't that the only fucking reason I've ever existed at all?"_

Aziraphale was shocked into silence at this rant. He'd had no idea he would strike such a nerve. The Serpent began pacing, prowling the room like a caged animal. With a quick thought, Aziraphale locked every door and window in the place. 7 The Serpent, still raving, didn't seem to notice.

"Innocent! Not an innocent one among them, _not one!_ Do you really think watching me die would be the worst thing they've ever seen? They've seen worse, I promise you. They've _done_ worse! There's nothing all of Hell could do to them that they don't do to themselves and _better_ , so don't come to me with some sugary fiction about the poor humans traumatized by the sight of a dying demon. Humanity is, and _always has been_ , more monstrous than any demon ever could be!"

"…Not all of them," Aziraphale said with a quiet certainty, "Surely not many of the ones in that room, if any at all."

The demon sneered, "What does it matter? What the _fuck_ ," he punctuated the word with a kick to the side of one of the bookshelves and Aziraphale jumped, "does it _fucking matter?_ TAKE ME BACK!"

He moved to kick another shelf, his foot pointed directly into a stack of books and, unthinkingly, Aziraphale stopped him. Literally. He was half-frozen in place, mid-kick. He struggled against the invisible barrier, practically snarling. Aziraphale moved toward him the way one might approach an angry dog.

"That's quite enough of that," he said gently, "I won't have you ruining the few I have left."

Aziraphale expected the demon to break out of the hold, but he simply continued to struggle, watching him with furious, terrified eyes. And he _was_ terrified, wasn't he? Why _hadn't_ he broken free? Surely he was powerful enough to fight back against a simple astral bind. Aziraphale took a moment to think, and decided that given the current evidence, it was likely the Serpent was more a danger to himself than anything or anyone else.

"I'll let go if you can behave yourself. Can you?"

The Serpent glared at him indignantly for a few more moments, then demurred, dropped his eyes and nodded. Aziraphale let go. As he did, the demon sank to the ground, sitting against the bookcase with his head in his hands. He began to weep.

"Why?" he wailed, mournful and plaintive, "Why won't you take me back?"

Aziraphale looked upon this once unfathomably powerful creature reduced to such a state, and couldn't help but feel a deep, empathetic sorrow.

"…Why would you need me to? You could be back there with a thought."

The Serpent shook his head, "…I _can't_ …they took it away…"

Aziraphale knelt in front of him but made no other moves.

"What does that mean?" His voice was gentle, serene, soothing. It was the sort of voice one might use with an anxious child, which was honestly a fair approximation for the energy the demon currently exuded.

The Serpent pulled his hands away from his face, gave him a worried, frightened gaze for a long moment, as though he were agonizing over whether to answer. Then he shrugged off his threadbare coat, pulled his shirt over his head, and Aziraphale gasped at the scores upon scores of mystic incantations etched into his skin. The demon looked away, ashamed.

Aziraphale couldn't even read much of it, there was simply _too much_ to make all of it out. But he read enough to understand what he was seeing.

"How…" he nearly whispered, trying to maintain his composure, "How long-?"

"Five years," the demon replied flatly, still refusing to look at him, "Long enough."

Well, the demon's behavior was much more understandable now. With a Binding this comprehensive, he was just about as near to human as one of his kind could be. _Five years_ without any sort of powers. Without any of the supernatural skills he'd honed to survive in this world for six millennia. To be rendered effectively mortal for any period of time - Aziraphale couldn't imagine it, couldn't even picture what it might look like. It must have been utter torture.

And yet, that meant the Binding didn't explain the decline he'd experienced in the decades prior. And Aziraphale hadn't been Bound, so it couldn't be connected to their shared predicament, could it? It seemed they needed to have a longer talk than previously anticipated. Aziraphale sighed.

"You know…I could use a drink. Do you drink wine?"

The demon looked up at this, shocked. " _Do you?_ "

"Well yes, I…I'm quite partial to it, in fact."

The demon stared at him, confused, but a little intrigued. Aziraphale nodded at him, stood, and turned to head toward his wine rack.

"…Got anything stronger?"

He could hear the faint smirk in the demon's voice and turned back to look at him. The demon returned his gaze, eyes awash in pain and desperation. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but it was a far-cry from the blank hopelessness they'd held only minutes before.

"Whisky?"

That got a bit of a smile out of him, thin but genuine.

"That'll do."

Aziraphale returned his smile, nodded again, and went to fetch a bottle and glasses.

* * *

4\. Though granted, they were also one of the only London shelters with dedicated angelic guardianship, and definitely the only secular one. [Back]

5\. They were the first shelter in the country to offer a needle exchange program, much to the constant chagrin of, and frequent interference from, local law enforcement. [Back]

6\. Again, quite possibly after a gentle nudge from a certain angel. [Back]

7\. If he truly wanted to leave, a mere lock couldn't possibly stop him, but perhaps it would at least slow him down a bit? [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be entirely honest, the chapter only ends here because if it didn't, it would end up twice as long as any of the others. I didn't want to stop the chapter before the scene got started, but I also don't want to either overwhelm readers with an 8k word chapter OR keep from posting for another week, so here we are. :)
> 
> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Attempted Suicide, Brainwashing, Denial, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, drug overdose, Drug Use, forced semi-mortality, forced sobriety, Gaslighting, implied/referenced prostitution, kidnapping, major angst, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Suicidal Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, Whump


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is...so very long. (Remember that thing about not wanting to put readers through an 8k word chapter? This one's over 7k, so...)
> 
> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### London, One Week Ago

Crowley sat on the filthy floor, leaned up against a mildewed wall, waiting for Owen to come back with his supply. This abandoned building, inhabited by the drugged-up dregs of society he'd joined forces with, was where he'd spent nearly all his time the past three years. There wasn't anything wrong with his flat, but he just never bothered with it anymore. There was nothing there for him now. This place and the pack of humans who frequented it were his entire world; if he wasn't out doing some errand for Owen or finding some side-hustle of his own, he just hung around, waiting for something to happen to him. Waiting, and planning.

To say the past five years had been awful would not do any sort of justice to the reality. The past five years had, in fact, taught him just how unbearable existence could truly be. The first two years were the worst, discovering the limitations of his near-mortal form, learning that discorporation was so much worse in this state that it was best avoided until he could find a way, find the strength, to truly end his miserable life. Then he'd met Owen, the human monster his life now revolved around, and things had become…well, not better. Definitely not, in any sense of the word. But more stable, perhaps. Less uncertain, if no less chaotic and unpredictable. It was easier to live with someone else making most of his decisions for him, at the very least.1

But in the back of his mind, he was always looking for a way out. And as he sat there in the dilapidated ruin he and his fellow junkies sheltered inside, it walked right through the door.

She was one of Lynn's friends. He'd seen her around once or twice, but he didn't know her name - it didn't matter anyway. He only knew Lynn's because she was Owen's friend, and knowing everything he could about Owen's life was always to his advantage. But this girl was of no interest to him, nor the bright yellow flyer she and Lynn were currently babbling about. But his ears perked up significantly when he heard the words, 'baptism', 'Safe Harbor', and 'next week'.

Lynn was annoyingly religious, and frequently got far too excited over such things as religious services offered at an HIV/AIDS awareness event, which was apparently what the flyer advertised. But he knew about Safe Harbor - the squatters frequently got clean needles there. It was a secular shelter, unconsecrated ground. He knew, from Lynn, that churches had whole pools of holy water for the diving, but he had no idea what would even _happen_ to him if he entered a church. If Safe Harbor was hosting a baptism, he could enter freely - and never walk out again.

Convincing Owen to take him hadn't been difficult. He was just about the worst person, human or otherwise, that Crowley had ever met, but he also liked to feel important and magnanimous, and was therefore very easily manipulated, which was one of the reasons Crowley stuck with him at all. That, and the fact that the longer he stayed, the more he felt dependent on Owen, trapped with him. But he didn't like to think about that. It didn't matter anyway, Owen was a temporary situation, a way to keep himself going until he could stop going altogether.

All in all, it seemed to him the flyer was an actual Sign, the Almighty Herself bestowing this final gift upon him, the consolation prize for a life of torment. It would be so easy; only a few more days and it could finally be over.

* * *

1\. Even if many of those decisions fell somewhere between 'vaguely uncomfortable' and just along the tolerable edge of 'abhorrent'. [Back]

* * *

#### London, One Week Later

Crowley pondered the events that had led him to the much cleaner floor of the angel's bookshop as he watched said angel return with a bottle of hard liquor in hand. To get all the way to the edge of his demise, only to walk right into the angel's path…maybe that was the real Sign.

Or maybe there were no true Signs anymore. Maybe there hadn't been for millennia, and they had all been abandoned long ago, demons and angels and humans alike. Maybe his entire life, all of their lives, had been one big, elaborate lie. Who was to say? He only knew he'd been fully prepared to die today, and he'd failed…and now he found he wasn't altogether sorry. Not when the chance to ask questions he'd needed answers to for decades was finally within his grasp. He didn't want to die without knowing.

"Come along," the angel said as he passed, heading toward the back of the store, "I should think the sofa's a much more comfortable option."

Crowley got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and followed. The angel led him to a room in the back, set up like a sort of reading room. The furniture was at least a century old, but considering the angel's typical wardrobe choices, that wasn't too surprising. It was also plush, floral, and absolutely hideous…but it really did look comfortable.

He took a seat on the sofa as suggested, the angel handed him a glass of whisky, set the bottle on the table and took a seat in the matching armchair nearby. Crowley watched with interest as the angel took a steady drink from his glass, closed his eyes in satisfaction, sighed. An angel who drank. An angel who drank _anything_ was odd enough, but alcohol?

Crowley tried his own drink and looked down at his glass with an impressed face.

"Huh. That's pretty good."

"It ought to be, I brewed and aged it myself. I happened to be stationed in a little monastery just outside Perth when the monks first took it up. Must have been, oh let's see now…1480s? 1490s?" the angel shrugged, took another sip, "Somewhere around the turn of the sixteenth century."

The angel was _bragging_. He was _proud_. What a fascinatingly odd creature this angel was.

He realized his anxiety, which had been slipping away from the moment he'd entered the shop, was now very nearly gone. He felt…calm. Not drugged, not dissociated - actual, true calm. The sort he hadn't felt in so long, he had forgotten what it felt like. It must be this place, the celestial energy that had kept him going for years before Hell took his last possibility for peace of mind. The bookshop was saturated with the angel's energy signature, a frequency that had always seemed to help him, when by rights it should only ever have hurt. And in his more vulnerable state, he felt its power more acutely than ever.

He took a deep breath, and it felt _good_. It occurred to him that he'd only been out of the horrible, toxic environment he'd been steeped in for what, twenty minutes now? And yet even that short distance, combined with his sudden, unplanned sobriety, was already giving him some much-needed perspective. If his suspicions were correct, the angel was likely the only person in the entire Universe who might actually be able to understand what he was going through. And the angel's change of heart, his willingness to talk, meant Crowley might be able to find an ally in him. If he could do that, he might be able to extricate himself from Owen's grasp. That was a very attractive proposition, no matter how much longer he intended to live.

"Well then," the angel said, "Shall we start with the older questions first, or the newer ones?"

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until the angel spoke, and he remembered just where he was. His heart beat a bit faster, but it was still light years away from the oppressive frenzy he'd lived under for decades now. The void was still there, but it was a bit easier to handle right now. That was good - this was a conversation he'd been trying to start for nearly 40 years, he didn't need the distraction. He opened his eyes. The angel was smiling, and that in-itself was rather distracting. He had a warm, kind smile, and Crowley didn't expect it to disarm him as much as it seemed to. He liked it…quite a bit more than he wanted to.

"Er…newer, I guess?"

The angel pointed at Crowley's chest,"Which side did that to you?"

Crowley set his jaw and frowned. That was how it was going to be, then?

"…Going right for the personal questions, are we?"

"Oh, I'd get used to it," the angel said, a bit _too_ cheerily, "I daresay personal questions are the only ones that'll do either of us any good at this point."

In true angelic fashion, the angel knew he was right, and he was being damn smug about it. Crowley swallowed back his irritation. Fucking _angels_. He narrowed his eyes.

"Question for a question, then?"

The angel nodded, "That seems fair. So…?"

He watched Crowley expectantly. Crowley took another drink and scowled into his nearly empty glass.

"…Mine."

"…I see. No follow up?"

"No. And now I get two questions." He poured himself another drink and glanced up at the angel, who simply watched him with that same mild, implacably cheerful expression.

"All right, then, ask away."

"…Why did you bring me here, really? How do I know you're not just stalling for time while your side sets up the ambush?"

"Well firstly, at this point I suspect 'my side' presents just as much of a danger to me as to you, given that they're bound to discover I'm speaking to you, alone, in a bookshop I'm not even supposed to be running anymore. And as for why you're here…last we spoke, a few of the things you said actually got through. I started investigating on my own and I'm now quite convinced there's something of a conspiracy surrounding…whatever all this is." He waved vaguely around the both of them.

Crowley nodded, "Fair enough. I reserve the right to do whatever I deem necessary to defend myself, should the occasion arise."

"Noted," the angel emptied his glass, then it filled anew without lifting a finger. Envy flared through Crowley's entire being. He could do that sort of thing once, back before he was broken. Or less broken, at least.

"Why in the world would your own side Bind you?"

Crowley rubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. This angel was going right for the fucking jugular, wasn't he?

"I don't actually know," he said, begrudgingly, "But I suspect it was an additional punitive measure atop whatever the fuck they've been playing at for half a century."

He thought hard for something he could ask that might impact the angel even half as much as these questions were wrecking him.

"Why aren't you supposed to be running this shop anymore?"

The angel's smile faded. _Good, let's see how you like it._

"I…I thought it was best to put aside some of my…vices."

Crowley raised his eyebrows - a sort of question, but not a verbal one. The expression on the angel's face said he was going to get away with it.

"I have a few…attachments to human culture that I've developed over the years. Hobbies. I enjoy some of the finer things this world has to offer - a nice meal, a hearty drink," he indicated the bottle on the table, "The books in this shop are the culmination of my life's work, I've been collecting the written word for five, six hundred years now. The human capacity for storytelling, for creativity, is such a joy to indulge in. But…it _is_ indulgence. All of it. And when I started feeling…not myself…I became concerned that my proclivities could be the cause. I…I thought they might be inducing The Fall."

Crowley stared at him, expression somewhere between amusement and pity. This angel was…something else, all right.

"Forty years, that's quite a slow-motion Fall," he couldn't quite keep the mockery out of his voice.

The angel frowned, vaguely offended, "Well how was I to know? The only Fallen I'd ever met was _you_ -"

"And you couldn't chase me away fast enough."

"Well really, what did you expect? I'd invite you in for tea?"

Crowley scowled. He wasn't going to answer that. It was clearly rhetorical anyway, it didn't count.

"…How might one know if one _were_ Falling?" The angel's tone had shifted to respectful caution.

He sighed, "One would _know_. You wouldn't have time to ask. It would just…happen. There's nothing slow about Falling. Nothing."

"Oh. Well, that's a relief!" the angel perked up again, seemingly oblivious to the bitterness in Crowley's voice.

"Yeah, fantastic, bully for you," Crowley muttered. For his part, the angel sobered a bit.

"…I'm…I'm sorry. I'm being incredibly insensitive, aren't I?"

Crowley took a long drink and tried to shrug it off.

"Doesn't matter. I don't expect you knew demons had feelings to hurt."

"No, actually I…seeing you suffer all those years was, ah, very educational, in fact."

Crowley snorted, "Was it that obvious?"

"Honestly, yes. It was clear nearly from the beginning that you were going through something difficult. …Something like what I was going through."

That surprised him. He looked at the angel's face, into his eyes, and realized he never really had before, not closely. And now that he looked, what he saw there was…pain. Masked pain, hidden behind layer upon layer of denial and forced false-positivity, but pain nonetheless. Now that he was looking for it, it was impossible not to see. He looked into the angel's eyes, and the void looked back.

"…You too?" he heard himself say anyway. The angel nodded, those impossibly blue eyes misting a bit. Crowley looked away, "…I'm sorry."

"As am I," the angel said, and cleared his throat, "But then, that's why we're here now, isn't it? For answers."

Crowley nodded, "I'd given up hope of ever finding any, really."

"Is that why you-"

The angel stopped himself, seemingly aware that there _was_ such a thing as a question too personal to be asked. But Crowley found that he didn't mind answering. He'd never talked about it, to anyone. It felt like it might be time.

"…That was one reason, sure. There were a lot of others. Sometimes it seemed like my entire life was being funnelled into this one, inevitable conclusion. And these past five years…I really don't want to get into it, but suffice to say, I've seen enough of this world to want to leave it. …And there isn't anywhere else for me to go."

The angel was quiet for a very long time. Crowley refilled his glass, a bit more this time. He stared into it.

"…I don't know that there's anywhere for me, either, really," the angel said, a wavering, hushed confession. Crowley looked up at him. He was very clearly trying not to cry.

The angel rolled his eyes at himself, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. He very pointedly didn't look at Crowley. He forced a milder, more congenial expression onto his face, and his entire demeanor changed with it. In a moment, it was as if he hadn't lost his composure at all. Crowley thought the ability to swallow one's emotions so effortlessly must be a simultaneous blessing and curse, and found he didn't envy him at all.

The angel sighed and looked up at him, "Was your human friend aware of…what was about to happen to you back there?"

Crowley laughed, cynical and joyless, " _Owen_? No. No, he's _not_ …'friend' is not the word. Owen's a prick, to put it exceedingly mildly. And yeah, he had _no_ idea. It was supposed to be a surprise. Really, I brought him along because I wanted to see the look on his face when I…well. Gave me a bit of preemptive satisfaction, little something to fantasize about, get me through the day."

The angel raised an eyebrow, "From the outside, it looked as though the two of you were…rather close."

Crowley's wry smile faded. He crossed his arms, looked away, "Yeah, well…'ss complicated. More of a…bussinesss relationship, I suppose."

What was he supposed to say? Their relationship wasn't all that unusual, but it certainly wasn't anything he was eager to discuss. It wasn't like, 'He keeps me consistently high in exchange for my services as lap dog, drug mule, fuck toy, and occasional punching bag' was the sort of thing you told _anybody_ , let alone somebody you'd really only spoken to for about fifteen minutes total in nearly 40 years.

In any case, the angel seemed to catch-on, because he dropped it without another word. They nursed their drinks in awkward silence for a long while, the guessing game rather less appealing after the last few exchanges.

"So, uh…" Crowley said eventually, mostly because he couldn't stand the silence any longer, "Can't help but notice you're not so keen on chasing me away this time."

The angel cleared his throat, "…Yes well, quite a lot has happened since we last spoke."

"You can say that again," Crowley muttered into his glass.

"…Honestly, I'm not entirely sure where to begin."

Crowley smirked, "Beginning's a decent place."

The angel gave a faint laugh, "Quite. Although, when it comes to entities our age, that's likely to be a _very_ long conversation."

"Heh. True enough. But there's a question: You _were_ in the Garden, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was. Guardian of the Eastern Gate, in fact."

"I thought as much. Let me guess, you don't remember me at all, do you?"

"No. Not in the slightest."

"Yeah, I didn't think so. And I don't remember you either, not an inkling," Crowley rolled his drink in his glass, "Your memory's knackered as well, isn't it?"

"…Very much so, I'm afraid. And the oddest part is, it seems to actually get-"

"Worse as it goes along," Crowley finished for him, "The long-past is mostly intact, but the more recent eras are almost completely blown."

The angel nodded, shocked, "Yes! That's it exactly! I don't know precisely why, but I've a theory."

"Let's hear it, then."

The angel set down his glass and looked at him so gravely that he straightened up a bit.

"I think…we knew each other, once. Not only met, but _knew_. I believe the memories I'm missing…are of you."

Crowley sank back in his seat, nodding slowly. He took another long drink, "…That's a start."

"You don't seem surprised. Did you already know? Is that why you came here in the first place?"

"No, I…At first I came here…well, I nearly said 'by accident', but that's not true. I was out for a drive and I just…drove here. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. But when I got here, I knew there was…Are you missing a cufflink?"

The angel blinked, surprised at the sudden question, but he nodded again, "Yes! It's…hang on."

He disappeared upstairs for a moment, and returned with something in his hand. He set it on the table and Crowley moved to pick it up.

"Er, that might not be-" the angel began, but Crowley already had his fingers around it.

"No problem."

He closed his hand around it. That pleasant, lovely tingle moved through his fingers, and he smiled faintly, closed his eyes a moment. It had been nearly five years. He'd left it at home when he went out on the prowl for his own self-destruction. He was too far gone for it to be of any use to him anymore - no sense draping a tiny bandage over a gaping wound.

He opened his hand to look at it, and he nodded to himself. It was indeed the cufflink's pair, every detail exact. At last, actual confirmation, proof that the connection hadn't been wishful thinking all this time.

"…I…I found it," he said, still looking down at its mate, "In my flat. Something about it…When I first came here, I knew it had to be connected, because the celestial frequencies matched. I knew it belonged to you."

"…'The signal is the same.' That's what you said that day. That's what you meant, isn't it?"

"…I mean, I honestly don't remember a single thing I said that day but…yeah. That's what I meant."

The angel was very quiet for a long time. Crowley set down the cufflink, looked up at him, and saw that he was frowning. He didn't look altogether shocked at the revelation, only contemplative.

"What?"

The angel nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision. "I have something to show you," he said, somewhat ominously.

He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out three slips of paper. Crowley took them. His ability to date objects at a glance wasn't what it used to be, but it was clear they were of varying ages. One was actual parchment. He read it first.

Angel,

Meet today, at earliest convenience, the usual place.

~Me

It was written in Ancient Greek. He frowned and opened the next one that seemed to be much newer, but still maybe about 400 years old. It was in German.

##########,

Time to discuss Arrangements. Business luncheon?

He couldn't read who it was addressed to (big surprise), and there was no signature, but… He opened the third, the newest by far, and the longest.

##########,

Just about finished mucking about in Paris, thought I'd send this along. Obviously the 1734 edition's the real prize, but I found a 1793. Figured you'd appreciate the symbolism. Try not to lose your head over it, angel.

~Me

p.s. Sunday brunch? La Brasserie Anglais on Hampstead has crepes to die for, apparently. Rendezvous point 2 at 11?

He flipped through them several more times, brow furrowing a bit more with each read.

"…Did I _write these_?" he said at last, though he knew it was a ridiculous question.

"I'd rather hoped you might be able to answer that," the angel said, his voice tight with anticipation.

"…It's my handwriting."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, what sort of a question is that?" he shot the angel an annoyed look, "Where did they come from?"

"Here. My bookshop, I mean, two of them were in books, one was inside a scroll. I've been looking rather diligently ever since I found the one about Paris inside a Voltaire, quite a while ago now. I remember bits of what it's referring to, you see, going to Paris. But I can't recall what came after…"

"I don't remember a thing," Crowley said, fascinated and baffled, "Not one word."

His tone in these notes was guarded, brief, but quite informal, increasingly so as the years went on. The Paris one in-particular struck him as quite…fond? Teasing? _Flirty_? He invited him to _brunch_ for Satan's sake. He didn't even _eat._

 _But the angel does_ , he thought. He nodded in understanding, speaking his next thought aloud, "We were friends."

"Hmm," the angel didn't seem altogether comfortable with that phrasing, "Acquaintances, certainly. Business associates? Spies, perhaps? 'Arrangements' with a capital 'A'…it sounds like some sort of clandestine meeting."

"I'd imagine it would have been," Crowley said, setting the papers down, exchanging an anxious glance with the angel, "But…look, I don't remember writing it, and I've no clue what it's about, but I know myself, and that one about Paris…Like it or not, angel, however we started, by the time I wrote that note, I was writing to a friend."

* * *

It was nearing nightfall when the Serpent stood and announced his plans to go home and retrieve Aziraphale's cufflink. Aziraphale was quite wary about this proposition. Now the discussion had become somewhat heated.

"It's not a problem!" the Serpent was saying, "I can be back here in half an hour, tops. I know exactly where it is, I want to get it back to you, I don't feel right holding onto it now."

Aziraphale kept shaking his head, "It's far too dangerous. They've been watching my shop for _years_ , they'll spot you the moment you leave. You'd be defenseless, and I certainly couldn't leave _with_ you."

"Well, return of lost property aside, what am I supposed to do, hole up in here for the rest of eternity?"

Aziraphale sighed, "At the very least, let me try and…undo some of that mess. Give you more of a fighting chance."

The demon looked down at himself and back up at Aziraphale, wary and unsure.

"You think you could? Think it would do any good?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but…it might help."

"Might hurt, too."

That wasn't a bad point. What _would_ happen if he tried to use celestial energy to affect the body of a demon? It wasn't _technically_ a blessing, but it might be close enough to do damage. He really didn't want to hurt him - he'd been hurt quite enough.

"I could take a look. I won't do anything, I just want to…see what we're dealing with here."

The demon sighed, "Fine. Look away."

Aziraphale circled him, trying to inspect each sigil. It was extremely difficult, many of them were melded together, and he couldn't read Infernal, anyway. But the green-gold script winding up his right arm…

"That's Celestial," he whispered, astonished, "However did they manage that, I wonder?"

He didn't realize he'd reached out to touch the mark until his hand made contact with the Serpent's skin and the demon jerked away.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"S'okay," the demon said, rubbing his arm, "Just startled, that's all."

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

The demon frowned, looked down at his arm, "…No. It didn't hurt at all."

They looked at each other, wearing the same look of astonishment. It _should_ have hurt, at least a little. It should have hurt Aziraphale, too, should have felt like touching a hot stove, or the snap of a static discharge. But it didn't really feel like much of anything. He reached out a hand again.

"May I?"

The Serpent nodded.

Aziraphale carefully lay his hand on the Serpent's arm. The Serpent felt cold, which was not altogether unexpected. What was unexpected was that nothing happened at all. Aziraphale held the Serpent's arm for nearly a minute before pulling away. When he did, the Celestial script followed his hand, came away from the demon's arm, dissipated into the aether. He hadn't even meant to do it, but the mark was gone.

"…Oh," Aziraphale said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

The Serpent stared at his arm, still marred with Binding incantations, but with one less shackle around it. He looked up at Aziraphale, astonished. His mouth worked wordlessly for a few moments before he found his voice again.

"Th- there's…there's another along my side…"

Aziraphale found it, brushed his hand down the Serpent's painfully thin ribs, pulling the Celestial script along with him. None of the other Bindings reacted at all. When he pulled his hand away, the demon gasped.

"All right?" Aziraphale asked, concerned.

"…Y- yeah…it…um…d'you see any more?"

He did. He pulled another from the demon's back, one more from his left shoulder, trailing up the side of his neck.

When he pulled the last one away, the demon staggered and Aziraphale steadied him, arm around his waist, hand on his arm. They locked eyes. Even in this wretched state, the Serpent was still very handsome, and for one utterly insane moment, Aziraphale found himself fighting an impulse to lean forward and kiss him. He wasn't sure which was more disturbing - that he'd had the thought at all, or that the look on the Serpent's face suggested he might be facing a similar struggle. He let go, put some respectable distance between them.

 _Keep it together for Heaven's sake,_ he thought at himself crossly, _You're not that lonely._2

The demon shook his head as if to clear it. He looked around the room as though he were actually seeing it for the first time. 

"Any change?"

"Yeah. I think…my astral senses are better. They must have been muffling the- I can…yeah, I can _feel_ them. I know where they are." When he looked back at Aziraphale, there were tears in his eyes, "Three of them, strategic locations."

"You're referring to Heaven's agents, I presume?"

The demon nodded, "I can navigate around them."

"You're so sure?"

The Serpent shrugged, smiled faintly, and transformed into a small, unobtrusive snake. He slithered up the wall, ducked into a corner and vanished into the shadows.

"I see," Aziraphale said, smirking, "Point taken."

The Serpent came out from behind a bookcase, human-shaped again. He looked particularly pleased with himself.

"It's saved me more than once out there. It's the only thing they couldn't take away from me. Though, I'm sure they would have if they could."

He had, Aziraphale noticed, smartened up a bit when he changed back to human. His hair was clean and untangled, tied back simply. He'd manifested himself a new, cleaner shirt. He wondered if that had been intentional, or if it was simply that his self-image wasn't quite as far-gone as his outward appearance, and so what he'd shifted back to reflected that.

 _Must be the second_ , he thought, _Something tells me if he could do something about it on purpose, he would do._

Cleaned up like this, his looks were even more striking, and Aziraphale suddenly found it a bit difficult to breathe normally.

_Stop that. Such thoughts are not only inappropriate to the situation, but he is a demon, you are enemies._

It was no wonder he'd suspected himself of Falling for so long - sometimes his thoughts, and his general proclivities, made him wonder whether he was any real sort of angel at all.

The demon looked at him quizzically and he realized he'd been caught staring. He reddened and looked away quickly, suddenly becoming very occupied with the contents of the table next to him. There was a long moment of silence.

"Hey, um…angel?"

"Yes?" he looked back up at the Serpent, who seemed in that moment just a bit smaller and more vulnerable than he had been a moment ago, hugging himself self-consciously and looking just about anywhere but at Aziraphale.

"…Thanks. …Thank you. For the Binding thing, obviously but…today…just thanks…"

He looked as though he were going to melt into the floor in a puddle of embarrassment, and Aziraphale found it, frankly, adorable. Which was disconcerting for too many reasons to count.

"You're very welcome," he managed, "I feel I…owe you an apology-"

The Serpent waved at him, scowling, "No, no, don't go doing that, you don't have to-"

"No, I'm fairly sure I do. I've been very…uncharitable to you over the years, and I must say, after today, I regret that very deeply. Approaching me in the first place took a good deal of courage, and your persistence points only to your dedication in-"

"Seriously, _stop_ ," the demon buried his face in his hands and wandered away, pacing through the shelves, seemingly unable to keep still, "I don't have to listen to this!"

Aziraphale smiled. The demon came back. He was smiling, too.

"So um…I should go. But I'll be back soon, and after that I…d'you think we might talk some more?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, pleased the Serpent had brought it up, "Though it might be best to give it a few days. Once Heaven comes calling, things will get a bit dicey for me, but it'll blow over. It's always done. Tell you what, come back in a week's time, I imagine I'll have come up with something by then."

"Yeah, okay. So uh, I'm thinking I'll find a back window…"

"Oh! Yes, of course, there's a rather inconspicuous one over here, would that work?"

He led him over to a small, high window just near the staircase. The demon inspected it, concentrated for a moment, and nodded.

"Yep. Perfect."

Aziraphale opened the window. The Serpent stood awkwardly for a few moments before tentatively extending a hand. He was blushing again.

"It was…good to finally meet you," he said.

Aziraphale shook his hand, "Indeed. I'm glad we managed it. May we meet again, under rather more favorable circumstances."

"Ha, yeah."

They released hands, the demon stepped back, gave a little wave, and transformed back into Serpent form. He slithered up the wall and out the window, which Aziraphale closed behind him.

"Good luck," he muttered, "Something tells me you'll need it."

He watched the window a moment, then closed it and turned around, intent on having a think about the strangeness of the day, perhaps over another drink.

He very nearly ran smack into Sandalphon, who was standing directly in his path, smirking a very unsettling smirk. Aziraphale was sure he hadn't been there only a moment before. Aziraphale yelped.

"Aziraphale," the Archangel said, oily and insincere, "Always _such_ a pleasure."

"Er-" Aziraphale's mind reeled. Had he seen anything? Heard anything? Did the Serpent get away all right? Just how much trouble was he in? What was happening?

"You've been given a transfer of assignment. We've come down to collect you."

"…I…I'm sorry?"

"But first, Gabriel would like a word," Uriel joined them, cornering him along with Sandalphon. Uriel hadn't been there before, either, "You're coming with us. Right now"

"I…what? Now?"

"Best get a move on. Paperwork, you know," Sandalphon said, in a tone that allowed no argument. Aziraphale argued anyway.

"But I…surely I could have a moment to-"

"No," Uriel said, "Now."

And in an instant, the three angels were gone, as though no one had ever been there at all.

* * *

2\. He absolutely and unequivocally was that lonely. [Back]

* * *

#### London, One Week Later

Crowley had spent the week holed up in his flat. It was the most sober he'd been in a very long time, and he found that he almost liked it. He didn't like living with the void in full force, suffocating under the weight of his own depression and self-hatred. But he very much liked the quiet, the solitude, the little freedoms he'd neglected to appreciate before they'd been stripped from him by the human who'd run his life for three years.

He was sober because all of his supplies, the few belongings he'd had with him on the street, were with Owen. And they could stay there, because he wasn't going back. Owen might actually go looking for him, but thankfully, Crowley had left his flat behind by the time he'd met him. Let him look, he'd never find him, and Crowley wouldn't be tracking him down, either. He was done - he didn't need him anymore.

He'd spent a lot of his time distracting himself with thoughts of the angel. After spending even that short amount of time together, Crowley found he _liked_ him. It made sense that they'd apparently once been friends. The angel was wry and sarcastic one minute, sincere and earnest the next. He was an indulgent, prideful, hedonistic creature, and that was quite impressive in an angel. But he was also kind and generous, compassionate and empathetic, which weren't qualities most angels possessed, regardless of their good reputation.3

He could still feel the sensation of those Celestial sigils peeling away at the angel's touch. The sudden rush of regaining even a small sliver of his senses had been overwhelming. But so, too, had been the _way_ the angel touched him, the warm, gentle fingers brushing his skin. It was intense, and quite intimate. He wasn't sure he disliked it, either. He hadn't been touched like that in…centuries. DaVinci, maybe. That had been a good time, the couple of years he'd spent lounging in the workshop (and the bed) of one of the greatest minds in history; a rare fond memory in a lifetime of devastation.4

He also couldn't stop seeing the angel's face as he caught him, mid-fall. It had very much mirrored his own mind in the moment, and he half-wondered, half-worried what that could mean. He thought perhaps if he kept meeting with the angel, he might find out. And he looked forward to it either way. It sounded like a nice change of pace, really.

* * *

Crowley took his Bentley out of its garage for the first time in years, and drove the short distance to the angel's shop, the cufflink nestled in his pocket for the last time. He parked a couple blocks away, intending to find a way to sneak in. But as he stepped out of the car and looked around with the gift of added astral sight the angel had restored for him, he found the shop unguarded.

"Huh," he said to himself, "Maybe it went better than expected?"

He turned his attention toward the shop itself. The signal was still there, but faint, like it always was for him unless he was actively looking at it. He suspected something was muting it - possibly whatever was preventing each of them from processing the other's name. But there was something else, a stronger frequency, nearly overpowering the first.

He stopped walking, frozen on the pavement.

There was a _different angel_ in the shop. He concentrated, strained to feel the angel himself, not simply the residual energy in the building. But he couldn't. There was only one angel in that building, and it was not the one who owned it.

"No…"

He ran until he was in sight of the shop, then hung back, afraid to be seen. He watched the shop intently, but could see nothing unusual. He steeled himself and headed, decisively, toward the shop. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was still his difficulty sensing the angel, perhaps he was there after all. He should be there. Crowley needed him to be there.

The door opened before he got to it, and the moment he saw the figure in the doorway, he knew two things: the angel was gone, and coming here had been a terrible mistake.

"…Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."

There was some other angel, some random Guardian (nothing stronger, thank whoever), dark-haired and stern-faced, glaring at him as though they'd expected him - and of course, they had. Crowley froze, unsure whether he should try to make a break for it. The angel didn't hesitate. With a flick of its wrist, it tossed a ball of holy energy toward him. He dodged just a bit too late, and he caught a bit of it as he ran. Not enough to kill him, but enough for it to hurt. Very, very badly. He didn't turn to see if the angel gave chase - he just kept going, fast as he could, ignoring the pain as best he could. When his car was in sight, he risked a glance behind him and saw that he was alone, and his senses told him the angel wasn't following him. He gave himself a chance to catch his breath as he limped to the car. He dragged himself into it and drove off as fast as he could, the radio mocking him with _Another One Bites the Dust_ until he switched it off in disgust.

* * *

Crowley limped his way into his flat and nearly collapsed the moment he was inside. He inspected the affected areas, the flesh blistering, mottled with the sort of branching, fractal pattern one sees from a lightning strike. He despaired. No powers, no way to heal himself, not even much of a spiritual immune system to fight off the energy coursing through him, growing increasingly unbearable with every second. He couldn't take it, the pain was too much, and eventually he did the only thing he could think to do; he changed form.

The pain was a _bit_ more bearable in this state, if for no other reason than his sensory apparatus was less complex. That, and his thoughts were also a bit simpler, and he knew from long experience what anxiety could do to pain. He was still anxious, certainly, but it was easier to ignore, to set aside, without the added burden of complex human-like emotions.

Slowly, Crowley slithered underneath his bed, coiled into a tight ball, closed his eyes, and tried to wait out the pain. If he died, so be it - that had been the plan only a week ago, after all. If not, he could at least shut down enough in this state to give himself a chance to heal. Either was fine. If he was lucky, maybe he'd hibernate until the End Times and sleep through Armageddon entirely. He could die with the rest of the Earth. That would be quite fitting, considering.

It was better this way. The angel was gone, and he'd taken with him any hope Crowley had of salvaging even a bit of his life.

* * *

#### A Certain Small Village Near Oxford, A Few Days Later

Aziraphale sat at his new kitchen table, bewildered, angry, and sad. He'd been reassigned, all right. Transferred to some little village in the middle of nowhere. The sort of place one might enjoy visiting a night or two on-holiday, but certainly not the sort of place where one _lived_. There was some other angel taking over his post, taking over his _shop_ , while he was relegated to this tiny corner of the world, miles from the city he'd called home for so many centuries.

He looked down at his wrists, at the gold script now winding around them, disappearing up into his shirt sleeves. Irony of all ironies - Heaven had Bound him. Not nearly as thoroughly as Hell had bound the Serpent, but still - Aziraphale suddenly found himself unable to perform any sort of miracle whatsoever. Punishment, Gabriel had said, for disobeying his direct order. They'd known about his meeting with the Serpent, of course, though no one would tell him what had become of him. Aziraphale prayed he was all right. He prayed the Serpent would forgive him.5

The cottage was already furnished, though they'd allowed him to send for a few of his possessions after a few days here. It was quite comfortable, really, circumstances aside. A homely kitchen, a living room large enough to accommodate a few bookshelves, a lovely view from nearly every window. But he saw it for what it was: exile. A gilded cage to accompany his gilded arms.

He wandered into the sitting room, looking for something to occupy his time. His eyes fell upon the bureau he'd recovered from the shop. The thing was nearly 300 years old, and like much of the furniture of its day, it was chock full of little secret nooks and hidden drawers. He hadn't gone hunting inside it for quite a while, and perhaps he'd find something there, some little piece of nostalgia to take his mind off of his current circumstances.

He went exploring. He found several little trinkets he'd picked up over the centuries and very much enjoyed the trip down memory lane. Then he found a hidden drawer he'd forgotten about entirely. It held a letter…written in what he now knew to be the Serpent's handwriting. It was very long. He began to read, and within moments, he found he needed to sit down.

14 February, 1946

Aziraphale,

You know I'm no good at this sort of thing, but for whatever reason, you insist that all you want this year is some flowery words on paper, so I'll do my best to oblige. Anything for you, angel.

…

He sat in his easy chair as he continued to read, eyes widening, one hand to his mouth in shock, in disbelief. This letter couldn't possibly say what he thought it said.

"Oh," he said when he'd finished, because he felt he needed to say something, "Oh. I see."

He read it again. By the third time, there were tears in his eyes. This letter changed _everything_ , and yet…there was nothing to be done about it now. After all, with circumstances as they were now, he was quite certain he would never see the Serpent again.

* * *

3\. And he wasn't bad to look at, either, though he kept trying not to think like that. He was sure whatever they'd once been to each other, such things certainly hadn't been on the table. [Back]

4\. Leonardo was quite possibly the closest thing to love he'd ever known. But it was a fling, brief even in human terms, and it hadn't really ever _meant_ anything. Close to love is still, by definition, not love itself. [Back]

5\. Such an odd thing, to pray forgiveness of a demon. But if anything had happened to him, Aziraphale knew he'd feel responsible. The demon had been counting on him, and he had up and vanished. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, Denial, Depression, Dissociation, dissociative sex, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Forced Amnesia, forced semi-mortality, forced sobriety, Gaslighting, implied/referenced physical abuse, implied/referenced prostitution, Implied/Referenced Torture, implied/referenced suicide attempt, implied sex, major angst, physical violence, suicidal depression, Trauma, Whump


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter-specific tags.

#### The Ethereal Plane, 1998

Crowley opened his eyes. The last thing he could remember was lying coiled and wounded beneath his bed, pain the only thing occupying his consciousness, lingering in a half-sleep. Now the pain was gone, and he wasn't at home anymore. He was in human form, chained to a cold, stone wall, arms above his head, wings out and pinned like a prize butterfly. The air was musty and close, cold yet uncomfortably humid, carrying numerous foul scents. Distantly, he heard sounds of torment, a muffled din of suffering.

Crowley was in Hell.

He took in his surroundings. He didn't recognize the room. It was empty, blank, nondescript, gray upon gray upon black. But even as he noticed, it began to change. The ceiling rose, impossibly high, the walls stretching to meet it as their cloudy gray shifted to a deep, writhing black. The floor beneath him became dark marble, sprouted red carpeting along the center, branched off through the doorway. Torches sprang from the walls, flickering fire light creating new, ominous shadows. Crowley watched the room shift with increasing horror; he knew exactly where he was, now.

Crowley was in Lucifer's chambers, and Lucifer was coming to greet him. And it seemed He was not in the best of moods.

As he realized this, the Lord of Darkness drifted through the doorway, beautiful and terrible. He hadn't seen Lucifer in person in millennia, certainly not in the past two thousand years or so, and he'd forgotten just how terrifying it was to be in His presence. Crowley couldn't tear his eyes away from the Morning Star's grotesquely exquisite form. When He wanted it to, His beauty was enough to give anyone, even a demon, total leave of their senses. _Satan_ was supposed to be the one who could drive a demon mad at a glance, but today Lucifer was giving Him some competition. He didn't turn it on full-force very often - if He did, nothing would ever get done. For a moment, He was all Crowley could see, all he could possibly fathom. All was Lucifer, and Lucifer was all. His Lord approached him and the only thing that kept him from flinching away was the stone at his back. He whimpered.

"Hello, Crowley," Lucifer drawled, his voice oozing with bitter malice, "So good of you to join us."

"M…my…my Lord…" Crowley croaked out, barely cognizant of anything beyond the flames flickering behind the inky black of Lucifer's eyes.

Lucifer put a gentle hand to Crowley's cheek, cupped it tenderly, stroked His thumb along his cheekbone. His face was an impenetrable blank - not that Crowley would have been currently capable of processing any expressions, anyway. He studied Crowley's face with careful, detached curiosity. Then his placid face twisted into a disdainful sneer.

He smacked Crowley, hard. So hard he felt it reverberate through him, far deeper than his physical body. He fought an instinct to close his eyes, but his head still turned from the impact. Lucifer grabbed his chin and forced him to face forward. Terrified gold met endless, impassive black, and the two held a long stare. Crowley could see distant galaxies churning inside those inky depths.

"Pathetic creature," Lucifer spat, "So much _promise_ , so much _strength_ , squandered up there steeped in _humanity._ " He said this last word as though it were a particularly disgusting disease, "Been up there so long, you're becoming one of them. Such a disappointment."

He released Crowley's face violently and stalked away from him. Crowley opened his mouth and in a moment, Lucifer was back in his face.

"NO ONE GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK!" he thundered, and this time Crowley did close his eyes. He was too frightened to cry, beg, do much of anything, his mind was a blank, his thoughts only a panicked white noise.

In an instant, Lucifer's entire demeanor changed. His expression was mild, His body language relaxed, His aura a hum of calm composure. Crowley didn't react in kind. He shook, the chains at his wrists rattling against the stone. Lucifer leaned forward and kissed his cheek. A gesture that, coming from anyone else, could have been described as loving. Crowley did start to cry then, and he didn't know why. Lucifer's mouth drifted to his ear.

"I will never forgive you," he whispered, and then he said a Name.

Crowley knew it was a Name, though his mind couldn't process it at all. It was somewhat akin to trying to hear the angel's name, but stronger, more disturbing. The sound of it hurt, badly. It was a knife through his rotted soul, wrenching it open. He knew what it was instantly:

Lucifer had spoken Crowley's Celestial Name. A name his demonic form was not built to hear, was designed to reject like a spiritual allergy.

Crowley felt the madness bubble up from inside him, blossom into hysteria, overtake his senses one by one. He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, awash in mindless terror as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

* * *

When he regained his senses, he wasn't chained up any longer. He was lying on the floor in a tight, protective ball. His throat was raw, he ached all over. He sat up with a start, looked around in a panic. The room had changed. The angles were a bit softer, the red less severe, the black more inviting.

Lucifer was sitting next to him, lounging on the floor in precisely the way Lucifer, Lord of Darkness and Emperor of Hell had absolutely no business doing. He smiled warmly at him, and Crowley was reminded of a serial killer he'd come across in the mid-1300s. That prolific, skilled, efficiently deadly man wore that same smile: congenial and friendly, with nothing at all behind his eyes. A mockery of a person. A monster in human guise. That was the smile Lucifer gave him now - demonic intention behind an angelic visage.

"That's more like it," Lucifer said, as though His entrance and that horrible interaction had been some fluke even He hadn't anticipated, and was glad to be done with, "I trust I have your attention?"

Crowley could only nod dumbly.

"Good. I have a proposition for you."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. That didn't sound at all encouraging. Lucifer smiled wider.

"I _like_ you, Crowley. Granted, you've been working hard to change that these past few centuries, but nevertheless…I suppose I've always seen a little of myself in you, really.1 You're…unique. You're special. You've got a certain spark to you that I've never seen in any of the rest of My Hoard. You've let humanity get to you, but the experience has taught you to understand them, to tempt them, in ways no other demon can. I've allowed you to stay up there as long as you have because you do good work, regardless of your…failings. Now, I know this past century's not been particularly kind to you, though you've only yourself to blame for that."

Crowley wondered what he meant, wondered whether it had something to do with being friends with the angel. He wished he could find his voice enough to ask.

"There are many down here who would see you extinct without a second thought, and I have to admit, I see where they're coming from. Still, I'm not a monster…well," he chuckled, "I'm not a _complete_ monster, anyway. Unlike _some people_ , I believe in true redemption. I think you just need a good push in the right direction to get you back where you belong. And I'm willing to give you that push, rather than simply extinguish your life where you sit."

Lucifer said all this as though He were some magnanimous benefactor bestowing some grand gesture upon him, and Crowley couldn't help but be reminded of Owen, waxing on about how much of a _favor_ he was doing him for allowing him to take a hit, or leave the house alone, or nurse his black eye a few days before he was given another. The difference was, Lucifer held Crowley's life in the palm of his hand in a way Owen never really had. And this made Crowley feel a real measure of gratitude in Lucifer's offer, despite how much he hated himself for feeling it.

"…push?" he squeaked out, his blown voice hoarse and weak.

"I've devised a…well, let's call it a reeducation program. I'm willing to make you into the demon you were always meant to be, and should you succeed at it, I'd like to give you a chance to redeem yourself in all of Hell's eyes. I'd like to give you charge…of My Son."

"…Already?"

"Oh, not for a few years now," Lucifer said breezily, as though he were not talking about the End of the World and the Beginning of what was sure to be an endless War, "But He'll be along soon. And I think there's a certain symmetry to allowing you, the demon who guided humanity into Sin, to be the one to guide humanity's Ruin into Ending their miserable existence. But you're in no shape to do so at the moment, as I'm sure you're aware."

Lucifer looked at his arms as He said this, and Crowley followed his gaze, the bindings stark against the few pale patches of skin between them.

"If I'm satisfied you'll use your powers to further My Will, I'd be happy to restore them to you. Anyway, you'll need them if you're to serve My Son properly. If you pass your exams, that'll be your reward." He tittered at this, as though he'd made a particularly funny joke. Crowley didn't know whether he was supposed to laugh, too, but he was too exhausted and bewildered to try. 

Lucifer stood up, loomed over him, and Crowley watched his face for a cue. The Morning Star smiled down at him, paternal and loving, a mockery of the Almighty. Crowley hated him more than he'd ever hated anything in his life.

"So, that's the deal: recommit yourself to Me, let Me help you to realize your full potential, and guide My Son through the Last Days…or die. Here and now. The choice is yours."

Crowley thought. He really thought about it. Had Lucifer presented this choice to him ten, fifteen, twenty years ago, he would have chosen death. He would have leapt at the chance, in fact, and been grateful for the reprieve. He knew whatever Lucifer had planned, it wouldn't be pleasant, would be the utter opposite of pleasant, in fact. He knew what Lucifer was suggesting was essentially a voluntary brainwashing. He knew he would probably come out the other side a different person, unrecognizable to himself. He knew he would be a puppet, the last remnants of his independence stripped from him. But he also knew his longing for extinction had faded as time moved away from that awful, wonderful day he'd spent speaking with the angel. He knew the angel likely had something to do with that, intentional or not. He knew he didn't want to die, not anymore.

He willed his limbs into motion and bowed low, stiff arms stretched before him, forehead touching the plush, red carpet.

"I am yours to command, My Lord," he said, and he even managed to say it without crying.

Lucifer clapped his hands like an excited child. "Ooo, marvelous! Oh do get up, for My sake, you look ridiculous!"

Crowley did so, and Lucifer took his hand as though he were a dear friend. Crowley successfully avoided a shudder.

"Come along now, don't dawdle," Lucifer said as He led him away, "We've got a lot to do, and only a decade or so to do it in!"

* * *

1\. Crowley thought that was quite possibly the most horrifying thing anyone in Hell had ever said to him. [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, 1998

Public libraries all over Britain were in crisis. More were closing every year, and even the large cities had difficulty maintaining their long-suffering institutions. A tiny village like Tadfield should have lost their local library sometime in the mid-90s. There was only one reason The Tadfield Public Library was still in operation, and that was its Head Librarian. Mr. Ezra Fell had appeared out of nowhere sometime in the early-80s, and ever since, he'd single-handedly protected the library from any and all harm, from underfunding, to Conservative Party hand-wringing over literature, to actual, literal fire. He was a dragon in local council meetings, fighting tooth and nail for the library's interests, and often succeeding, much to everyone's surprise. Thanks to his efforts, the TPL was one of the best libraries in the country. It was open 12 hours per day, six days per week, with the seventh reserved for building and library maintenance. It had daily events, school outreach and partnership initiatives; name a program a library might offer, the TPL offered it.

Many Tadfield residents often wondered whether Mr. Fell ever slept. It seemed the library was his entire life, and he was dedicated to it to a degree some might call pathological. He was most certainly eccentric: friendly, kind, generous, but also much more private than some, and a bit misanthropic at times. But regardless, the town appreciated the work he did, and he was a well-liked and well-respected member of the community. All in all, Mr. Fell was a real angel.

* * *

Aziraphale was restocking the shelves when the new couple came in. He looked them over as they approached him. He (the man) was very nearly a stereotype of the English Tory of a certain age, she the very picture of a wife who'd come to regret her life choices just enough to want a re-do at a sort of girlhood, and was starting with her hair color.

"Excuse me," the wife said, politely, "I was wondering if you could direct us to any books on Eastern philosophy? Yoga and the like?" She smiled sweetly. The husband harrumphed uncomfortably. Aziraphale got the impression this was a typical response to just about anything his wife said, because she ignored him completely.

"Certainly, you'll want the…ah, you know what, let me just show you. We're in the process of re-indexing and some of the sections can be a bit difficult to navigate. Catching up with the times, you know. We're installing a mechanical - er, _computerized_ management system. It'll be all up to date by the end of the year!"

He led them across the room, "I haven't seen you around before, have you just arrived?"

"Oh yes," the wife said, "We're still unpacking, in fact. Arthur's just been transferred in from Luton."

"Oh! Are you with the firm who just moved in up the road? What was it, Benton and…?"

"Beechton and Saunders," the husband said, a bit gruffly.

"Ah yes, that's the one! Well, allow me to welcome you to Tadfield! We so rarely get new faces, how nice to get two at once! Here we are," he gestured, "All along this aisle."

The wife smiled, "Thank you very much! Oh, while I have you, do you know the area well? I was wondering if there were any good walking paths near our house."

"I've been here quite a while, though I must admit I'm more familiar with the area around the library. Where have you settled?"

"Hogback Lane, down on the South end of town."

Aziraphale blinked, "Number 4?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

He smiled, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet a neighbour! Number 4's been empty for years, it'll be nice to have some life in it! I'm at number 6, you see, just next door. Ezra Fell at your service," he extended his hand.

The wife beamed, and shook it, "Deirdre Young, this is my husband Arthur."

Aziraphale reached a hand out to the husband, who gave it a stiff nod.

"Pleasure," he said, grumpily.

Aziraphale smiled and retracted his hand, unfazed. He turned back to the wife, "Well, I'm happy to say there are _several_ good walking paths nearby. I'd be glad to show you a few, if you're keen."

"Oh, that would be lovely! How's Sunday morning, say eight o' clock? I'd love to get a walk in before church."

"That should do nicely. Well, I'll leave you to it for now. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask!"

"Thank you, Ezra, a pleasure to meet you!"

"You as well, dear lady," Aziraphale said, and he meant it. It really would be nice to have a new neighbor. He didn't really have anyone he could relate to in town, and he just had a feeling about Deirdre. He might just have gained a walking partner, and how nice that would be after years of solitary strolls. Perhaps he'd pop home this evening and bake them a pie.

* * *

#### Tadfield Manor, 11 Years to Armageddon

Crowley rose through the soil, the picture of sleek, demonic menace. His crimson hair cascaded down his shoulders, clad in a black suit of no particular era. He forewent the shades; he didn't care a whit whether humans knew he was a demon. It would be better for everyone if they feared him - they should. He was not to be trifled with.

He inspected the night with a cold indifference, vigilant but uninterested. He wondered how he could ever have felt anything for this world, or for the humans that infested it. It was so far beneath him. He didn't understand that before. Now, with some of his power restored, and granted a second chance by the careful tutelage of Lucifer Himself, Crowley understood that the Earth was meaningless. Worthless. Lord Lucifer had seen fit to show him that, in His infinite wisdom and hatred.

Now Crowley cared for nothing but his service to the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, currently nestled comfortably into the wicker basket he held, a comforting weight in his hand.

He meandered to the front of the Manor, irritated to find that no nun awaited him. Ungrateful creatures, humans. He delivered them the destruction they prayed for, and they couldn't even bother to show him the slightest respect. Despicable. But there _was_ a human standing near the front door. A male human, smoking a pipe.

"Has it started yet?" he asked it, assuming the man must be involved somehow.

"Yes," the man said. "They made me go out."

What the Heaven was that supposed to mean? He racked his brain for what he knew of the creatures. This must be the human who would pose as His Lord's "father".2 What was his name? Drowning? Donner? It didn't matter. He'd learn it once it was relevant to him.

"What room is she in?"

"We're in Room Three."

"Right," he said, and pushed past the man, who continued wagging his tongue after Crowley was finished with him. Stupid creature. He tossed a careless curse back at the human, who coughed mightily, his pipe tobacco suddenly taking on several new contaminants. Crowley smirked. It would be a pleasure to watch him die in the End, though he wondered if he'd even know it was him. Humans all looked just about the same to him, now that he viewed them from the proper perspective: faceless vermin to be crushed beneath his heel.

He handed the basket over to the first nun he saw, growled a few instructions at her, and stormed away again before she even had a chance to speak. He didn't want to get her started, he knew how these things could talk. He wanted to get away from this place as soon as possible. It reeked of humanity.

He lurked in the courtyard, ignoring the human commotion and the inclement weather, until a nun came to inform him the switch had been made, and the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was safely with his human guardians.

"Your work is done here," he said, distant, not even bothering to look at her, "Your order is hereby disbanded."

The creature squawked some argument he couldn't be bothered to listen to.

"You have your orders," he said, indifferent, "You will obey your Lord, or you will face the consequences. The choice is yours."

He walked away from her, leaving her to her mewling protests. He followed the path behind the manor, up the hill, to where Hastur awaited him.

"Hail Satan," Crowley said, reverent and formal.

"Hail Satan," Hastur repeated with a nod, "Report."

"It's done. Our Master has been successfully delivered."

"Well then, you actually did something right for once in your miserable life," Hastur said with a sneer, "Let's see if you can keep it up for the next eleven years."

"I won't fail you," Crowley said, earnest but in no way defiant, "I swear it."

"Hmph. We'll see."

"You know, the nuns gave me some lip when I told them to disperse."

"Not surprising. They're a chattering order, after all."

"Still…disrespectful."

They stood in silence for a long while. Crowley didn't so much as fidget, paying close attention to the Duke. He watched as Hastur raised the storm, called a well-placed lightning strike, sparked the fire. He smiled, glad to see the things get some retribution. If he were restored to full power, he might consider barring the doors from where he stood. It would serve them right. Alas, he was still mostly Bound, but not for long. Soon, he'd be every bit the demon he was always created to be.

* * *

2\. Crowley didn't notice that the man's accent was wrong, that he should have been an American. He didn't give a fuck about accents. That he was forced to engage in human speech at all was a crime - might as well be barking. [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, One Week Later

Aziraphale rang the doorbell, casserole dish in hand. A harried-looking Arthur Young opened it, and while he didn't smile, his eyes held a hint of fond recognition.

"Ah, Ezra old-chap, Deirdre's been expecting you. That's supper, I take it?"

"Indeed!" Aziraphale waltzed past him and into the kitchen. He took it upon himself to fish out plates and silverware. No need to stand on ceremony with old friends. He knew their kitchen like the back of his hand. 3

"Not anything too…exotic, I hope?" Mr. Young eyed the meal suspiciously. To Mr. Young, "exotic" included any spice that might make food interesting in any way, including curry, clove, and garlic. There were times Aziraphale strongly suspected he might label something "exotic" if the dish went a bit heavy on the salt and pepper.

"Only the classics tonight, never you worry," Aziraphale smiled indulgently, "A nice, simple Lancashire hotpot. It should last you the week, I'd think."

"Bless you," Mr. Young said, genuinely grateful, "You know I'm hopeless in the kitchen, and with Deirdre laid up I was worried we'd starve before long."

"Come now, Arthur, you know I'd never leave you in the lurch! How is she? How's the baby?"

"Oh, they're fine, resting just now. It's about time, too, he's been-" as Mr. Young spoke, a sharp wail rang through the house and the two shared a wary glance, "Ah well, speak of the devil, I suppose."

Aziraphale laughed and wagged a mock-scolding finger at him, "Perhaps not the best turn of phrase, Arthur. I'm willing to bet he's a perfect angel!"

"He is," Deirdre said, walking the baby up the hallway, "When he's asleep! Hi, Ez, thanks so much for supper! I've missed our walks these past few weeks!"

She gave him a quick hello peck on the cheek and he beamed at her and the baby.

"As have I, dear lady, as have I. Ooo, isn't he a lovely little thing?" Aziraphale cooed at the squirmy bundle in Deirdre's arms.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked, clearly more of a request.

"Of course! Hello Adam," he took the child with practiced ease, 4 "Welcome to the world! How's your first week treating you, my fine little fellow?"

The Youngs dug in to their supper while Aziraphale sat in the easy chair and rocked the baby. Little Adam quieted right down as soon as Aziraphale took him. He stared up at him with eyes that seemed far beyond his years. Aziraphale had heard that this was often the case with infants, but the boy's eyes were…compelling. There was something almost…otherworldly…no, that was ridiculous.

 _Don't be paranoid_ , he thought, _You're only feeling a bit unsettled because you haven't held a baby in literal ages_.

'Speak of the devil,' Mr. Young had said. The phrase ran through his mind, and he shivered as baby Adam stared up at him, wise, and old, and knowing.

* * *

3\. Which remained etched with Celestial symbology he had managed to successfully dismiss to his friends and neighbors as a sadly regrettable, youthful indiscretion. [Back]

4\. Aziraphale had never been particularly keen on infants, but with a new neighbor on the way, he'd taken it upon himself to practice with a sack of potatoes for several weeks now. [Back]

* * *

#### London, 10 Years to Armageddon

Harriet Dowling didn't even need to advertise for a nanny. The advertisement was still in the planning stages when the doorbell rang, and behind the door stood the exact nanny they needed. Her references were flawless, her demeanor walking a perfect line between severe and sensitive, her stylized look fitting the precise image of "British nanny" in Harriet's American mental encyclopedia. Nanny Ashtoreth was hired after a five minute interview. Harriet supervised for the first week or so, but it was clear the woman knew what she was doing, and she soon left her to her work.

Mrs. Dowling wasn't entirely uninvolved in Warlock's life, but she was a busy woman, networking to do, shoulders to rub. And she hadn't taken to motherhood the way she thought she might. It didn't really live up to expectations. She'd secretly hoped that a child would be just what she needed to convince Tad to take some time off, strengthen their marriage. He hadn't been home for more than a week all year. She'd read all sorts of things about instantly bonding with ones child and the miracles of breastfeeding and the Correct Way to be a mother. None of it seemed to be panning out, really. Breastfeeding was a chore more than anything - she pumped whenever she could, it was so much more convenient than fussing with a fidgety baby. She loved her son, certainly, but she didn't know what a parental bond was supposed to look like, exactly, so she wasn't sure if she was doing it right. She was, she thought, probably a Bad Mother. And that made her nervous. And when she was nervous, she preferred to distract herself with other things. So a nanny was the ideal solution - someone competent to mind him most of the time, while she could pop in and out of his life at her convenience.

Besides, her own mother was barely involved in her life, and she'd turned out fine. She hadn't even had the benefit of a nanny, only a series of aunts and teenage babysitters. Warlock would be much better off with a single, steady presence.

* * *

Crowley hated this place. He hated everything, really, but this house was crawling with humans he had to pretend to, if not like, at the very least tolerate. He didn't care about any of their petty concerns, their simple day-to-day. It wasn't that he didn't understand humans, he'd been on Earth far too long for that, memory problems notwithstanding. But he didn't _care_ anymore. Humanity was a trifle, a literal waste of space. The physical bodies on this plane were mere vessels for souls that rightfully belonged to Hell. Souls His Master would claim, in eleven years' time. And that was why he was here, he frequently reminded himself. He didn't care about this place, but His Master was here, and His Master needed him, and that was enough to keep him engaged.

Besides, he looked absolutely _killer_ in this outfit. 5

* * *

He was sitting in his room after putting the baby down for the night when the radio switched on of its own accord. The radio had been there when he got here. He hadn't even noticed its existence, he had no use for such things anymore. But now it was on, and playing some sort of pop song.

_Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack, 'Cause when I leave for the night, HOW GOES IT, CROWLEY?_

He leaped to his feet in surprise and confusion before he remembered that he'd suggested Hell keep in contact with him electronically, given the era. The Dowlings likely didn't go in for complex demonic sigils burned into the walls, he reasoned, and Hastur had reluctantly agreed. It seemed the Duke had taken him a bit more literally than anticipated.

"Going fine so far," he said vaguely into the air, thinking speaking directly into the radio would feel a bit silly, "Only been here a month, but it's working out, I think."

_HOW IS OUR MASTER, CROWLEY?_

"He's perfect," he said, smiling, "Only a year old and I can already see big things for his future."

_WE'VE BEEN KEEPING AN EYE ON YOU, CROWLEY. YOU'VE DONE WELL. USING YOUR LIMITED POWERS PROPERLY, SHOWING LOYALTY TO OUR MASTER. YOU'VE IMPROVED._

"Thanks," he said, suspicious. Words of praise weren't something he expected from his Lower Downs, and certainly not from Hastur.

_DON'T THANK ME, CROWLEY. THANK LUCIFER. HE HAS AUTHORIZED THE REMOVAL OF YOUR BONDS. YOU WILL BE RESTORED TO FULL POWER._

And just like that, in a single second, the Bonds were gone. He dropped to the ground, the rush of power immense and sudden. His nightstand light shattered from the shockwave reverberating out of his physical form, his control on his power years out of practice. He concentrated a moment, and managed to contain himself. He snapped his fingers and the lightbulb was whole again, came back on like it hadn't been disturbed at all. He grinned.

"Thank You! All praise to Lucifer, Hail Satan, my life for You my Lords, thank You so much for this opportunity! I won't let you down, I swear."

_YOU'D BETTER NOT, CROWLEY. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, REMEMBER THAT stop, make it pop, DJ, blow my speakers up, Tonight, I'm-a fight, 'Til we see the sunlight_

Crowley stared at the radio, Hastur's voice having given way to the song. He continued to stare. He wasn't supposed to like music anymore. Demons didn't care about music. But he had to admit, this was actually pretty good.

He left it on. It couldn't possibly hurt to listen now and again, could it?

* * *

5\. He knew he shouldn't enjoy playing with gender, shouldn't give gender or clothing or any human trapping any more thought than he did to anything else not directly related to the rearing of the Antichrist. But as much as he knew he shouldn't, he was enjoying himself. It had been a while since he'd presented as female, and in this day and age, between the clothing options and the feminist agitation, it was a lot more enjoyable than it had been 200 years ago. It was likely more enjoyable than it would have been 20 years ago, had he dared. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, Brainwashing, Denial, Depression, forced semi-mortality, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter-specific warnings

#### Adam 

He is three years old. They are in Mr. Fell's kitchen, munching on the glutenous fruits of an afternoon's labor. Adam is absolutely covered in flour. A knock on the garden door draws their attention, and the boy practically glows with joy as the door opens.

"Mummy!"

"Hello my dear," Mr. Fell says, ushering her inside, "Wonderful timing, we've just finished. How was pilates?"

"Oh, nothing special, but it was nice to get out of the house. I think I really will make it a regular thing." Deirdre pulls her son from his seat on the kitchen counter, "Well, don't we look a sight? I hope he wasn't too much trouble." 

Mr. Fell smiles, "Not at all, we had great fun with our biscuits, didn't we, Adam?"

"Shorbred!" Adam throws his hands over his head, "Yummy!"

"Did you make shortbread?" his mother asks, in the rhetorical way one tends to ask toddlers. The boy nods vigorously, and his mother gives him a cuddle, ignoring the flour pressed to her cheek, "How lovely!" She turns her attention to Mr. Fell, "I really appreciate your watching him, Ez, you're an angel."

"Think nothing of it, my dear, he's an absolute joy. Oh, I've left a plate for you there, please do take it, I'll eat it all if you don't!"

"Oh, so you're pawning it off on me, are you?" Deirdre laughs and picks up the biscuits with her other hand, "Ah well, that's what the gym is for, I suppose. See you Sunday? I was thinking down by the quarry pond this week."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Have a wonderful evening, Didi."

"You too, Ez. Adam, what do we say to Mr. Fell?"

"THANK YOU MISSER FELL!" he shouts, and both adults laugh. Mr. Fell gives a little wave.

"Bye bye, Adam!"

Adam waves enthusiastically as his mother carries him out the door. Mr. Fell shuts the door behind them, sighs a deep sigh, sits back down at the table, and starts in on another biscuit.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn't concerned about the child, really. There was just something a bit…off about him. He really was a joy to be around. He was well-behaved, enthusiastic, sweet, curious. But there was a feeling about him, a sort of pull. He never dwelt on it for long, but Adam had a charisma that was very nearly magnetic. Aziraphale had never been much of a child person up to now. Children were chaotic, loud, reckless, messy as all-get-out, it was disconcerting. Anytime he'd had a child in his shop, he spent every moment terrified they'd leave the place irreparably sticky.1

But Adam was different. Aziraphale found that he wanted nothing more than to please the child, in any and every way that he could. It was almost a compulsion. He'd happily offered to take the day off to accommodate Deirdre's class, and he never took days off, really. Today, he'd been somewhat devastated when he realized he didn't have the ingredients to make the shortbread he'd promised the boy last week. He could have sworn he was out of milk, and didn't catch it until it was nearly time for his mother to drop him off. But the waves of relief that washed over him when he discovered the bottle in the back of the fridge (where he was certain he had looked only an hour earlier) were strong enough to be somewhat startling.

He loved that little boy, but sometimes the way Aziraphale felt about him was almost…frightening.

* * *

#### Warlock

He is three years old. They sit in the nursery, playing with blocks.

"And what color is this?" Nanny says, handing him a new one.

"Red!" Warlock says happily.

"Yes, it is red. And what is red for?"

"The blood of my enemies!"

"Well done, my darling, that's exactly right."

Warlock beams at her, and she gives him a bit of a smirk back. The boy picks up another block.

"Blue! That's sky, and water, and corpses and sadness."

"Yes! You're so clever, my Lord."

She tweaks his nose and he giggles. She smiles fondly at the sound and strokes the child's hair before remembering herself and adopting a sterner expression.

* * *

Crowley didn't even need to pretend. He was genuinely fond of the child, his Master. He knew caring for the boy would be a challenge, but he hadn't been prepared for the challenge posed by how enjoyable the task was. He'd forgotten what caring for children was like, he hadn't done it since that ridiculous, foolish nonsense with the ark,2 and he found it was…well, it was rather rewarding. It felt good to be needed. The day-to-day of raising a child gave him structure and meaning unlike anything he'd had in his life…possibly ever. The problem was, the experience seemed to be interfering with his training.

Last week, he took the child out for a stroll and caught himself actually, literally stopping to smell the roses. When he noticed, he ripped a blossom off immediately. Only when he made it back to his room did he notice that he'd unthinkingly put it into his hat.

He'd decided to leave that bit out of his quarterly report to Head Office. They'd really taken the leash off now that he'd proven himself, and he knew they'd put it right back on again at the first sign of trouble. Any thoughts of enjoying the world around him were best kept to himself. The struggle was uncomfortable and frightening. He didn't want to lose all he had gained, go back to his Bound state - or worse, back to the pathetic creature he once was, soft and riddled with guilt, and worse, _empathy_. What a terrible thought.

But he could handle it - he was a professional. It was his job, and Lucifer was counting on him. He couldn't dream of disappointing. Quite literally.

* * *

1\. Oh, how he missed his shop. The library was wonderful, it was the center of his world now, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of emptiness beyond the usual when he opened those big, glass doors. He missed the quiet solitude, the privacy. He missed books that were his, and his alone. At least he'd been able to keep his remaining first editions, which sat at places of honor on the living room shelves, a mini-library of his own. [Back]

2\. There were bits of this incident he couldn't remember, but he knew he'd smuggled several children aboard out of sheer weakness of character. At least it was in defiance of the Almighty, that was something. [Back]

* * *

#### Adam 

He is seven years old. He is sitting on an exam table, waiting with thinning patience as a doctor pokes and prods and inspects him and orders him about. He is very, very bored. He has been here for what feels like a thousand years, and he really needs to get back to his friends. If he's this bored, they must be bored silly, without him to guide them. But his mother and Mr. Fell rushed him here in a hurry, and he really can't understand why. There's nothing the matter, he doesn't even feel sniffly.

"How high a fall did you say?" the doctor says as he checks Adam's arms, inspects his neck and spine, looks over his head, yet again.

"Must have been about 12 meters," Mr. Fell says, and he sounds so concerned, and Adam can't understand what all the fuss is about, "It was the very top branch of the tree." 

His mother is fighting back tears. "I should have been there," she whispers, and Mr. Fell puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You can't be everywhere at once, Didi, don't blame yourself. I only thank the Lord I was there."

"You're sure?" the doctor says, taking another look at the see-through pictures of Adam's bones that they took earlier.

"Positive," Mr. Fell says, and the doctor looks at him skeptically.

"Tell me again, I want to be sure I'm not missing something."

Adam wants to scream. The adults have been having this exact conversation for ages and it never changes. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head, like his mother taught him to.

"Mum," he says, trying to remain calm in the face of all this unnecessary hysteria, "I want to go home now."

She strokes his hair, "Not yet, sweetheart, we have to make sure you're alright."

"But I'm fine!" He protests, but no one listens. This is a very frustrating situation.

"I could see the tree he was in from my kitchen window," Mr. Fell says, for at least the fifth time, "I watched him climb to the top branch, the branch gave way, he hit a few on the way down. But by the time I got out to him, he was on his feet again."

"How extraordinary," the doctor says, inspecting his face yet again, "And not a scratch on him."

"But internal injuries!" his mother says, "What if he's…"

The doctor stops examining him, finally, "Rest assured, Mrs. Young, in my professional opinion, this child is the picture of health. Not a break or bruise in sight, inside or out."

"But how is that possible?"

"Children are very resilient, they can easily survive a fall like the one your friend describes. And it seems he got lucky and avoided any external injuries, as well."

The doctor waggles a stern finger at him, "You hear me, young man? You were very lucky to escape injury! Such a thing isn't likely to happen twice, so don't go climbing about like that and worrying your mother, all right?"

"…I guess," he says sullenly. He hates being told what to do. He should be the one telling other people what to do, it feels more normal that way.

"Thank you very much," his mother says to the doctor, "I appreciate your indulging me."

"Think nothing of it," the doctor says, gesturing to Adam that he can finally get down from the table, "Better safe than sorry, Mrs. Young. You were right to bring him in. You should phone me immediately if anything changes, all right?"

They leave, to Adam's great relief. But the entire car ride home, Mr. Fell keeps staring at him through his mirror, and he can't figure out why. He doesn't give it much thought, though. He has more important things to think about, like what to play once he's back home with his friends, where he belongs.

* * *

Aziraphale had never seen anything like it, not in all his years on Earth. He watched that child fall forty feet and land hard, as Aziraphale barreled out his door, his mind awash in all the different ways a human's fragile body could break with such a fall. He kicked himself over it, cursing his shackled arms for preventing a well-timed miracle. But it seemed a miracle had occurred anyway.

He _should_ be hurt. That wasn't a very nice thing to think, but it was true. There was absolutely no reason, and very little probability, that a seven year old child should fall from the top of a mature tree without a single scratch.

And this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

Miraculous things seemed to happen around Adam all the time. His pet rat was four years old and showed no signs of aging. The flowers in Deirdre's garden which he favored always blossomed full and beautiful, whether she spent time in the garden or not. Whenever Adam wanted something, he got it, whether it was likely or not.

There was just something not quite _right_ about the child. He couldn't even put his finger on it, but he didn't know how to investigate further, because he didn't even know what he was looking for. He only knew if the child were in some way supernatural, he should be able to see it. His Bonds might prevent him from performing miracles, but there was nothing wrong with his senses. And yet, the boy seemed so very normal. _Too_ normal, he might even say, considering the circumstances surrounding him.

He resolved to keep a closer eye on Adam than he had in the past, and for reasons far beyond his friendship with the boy's mother.

* * *

#### Warlock

He is seven years old. They stroll through the park, Warlock running ahead, squealing in delight as he chases through a flock of ducks. He looks back at Nanny, reassuring himself of her presence. She waves. He tries to wave back, but the cast on his arm stops him from raising it high enough. He thumps at it angrily with his other hand. Nanny catches up.

"None of that, now," she says gently, "You'll only be sorry for it later."

"It's been forever, it'll never come off!" 

"Only two more weeks, my darling, patience now. It'll be off before you know it."

He scowls at it a moment longer, before looking up at her, hopeful and earnest.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Do you promise a million?"

She kneels to meet his eyes. He can always find them, even behind the glasses.

"I promise with my whole heart," she says, and he knows she means it. He beams.

"Wow, is that bigger than a million?"

There is a nearly imperceptible pause. The boy doesn't catch it.

"It is, dear-heart. It's the biggest promise I can possibly make. Now go and play. I wonder whether the ducks would like a snack, if you can resist chasing them off."

She pats the boy's pocket, reminding him of the little bag of seed she'd given him earlier. She ushers him away and stands, turning a bit so he doesn't catch the tear that rolls down her cheek.

"Steady on," she mutters to herself, "Smudge your mascara if you keep that up."

* * *

A lot could change in seven years.

The reports to Head Office were fewer and further between, and he found that the less Hell checked in, the less he felt beholden to them. His discomfort with disobedience faded, and was replaced with a much more familiar discomfort with obedience. And despite his earlier fears, he found he liked the change. It was as if he were coming back to himself, reacquainting with a person he hadn't seen in decades. But it also meant he was becoming precisely the demon that Lucifer did _not_ want him to be, and it was definitely affecting his job.

Nowhere was this more evident than in his interactions with Warlock. He knew he should be encouraging the boy to torment the ducks, maybe even kill them. But…he couldn't. Overall, his increasingly sporadic lessons in evildoing were becoming rather half-hearted. With every passing day, he found it a little more difficult to teach cruelty to this sweet, trusting, loving boy. He was beginning to see his role as more of a protector than a mentor, feeling a strong defensiveness toward the child's innocence. All of this worried him quite a bit.

And then there was the broken arm. He would have prevented the injury himself had he been there, but he'd been away the day the boy had slipped down the staircase, stumbling over one of his own toys. It wasn't a particularly odd injury for a normal child, but…Warlock wasn't _supposed_ to be a normal child. Such a thing shouldn't be _possible_ for him, in fact. The toy should have moved out of the way, shouldn't even have been there in the first place. The boy should have stepped over it as if it were nothing. The fall shouldn't have affected him at all.

Warlock was very…human. Too human. He didn't act like a demon, he didn't think like a demon, he didn't even _feel_ like one, not even deep at his core. Crowley knew the Antichrist was supposed to be a sort of Trojan horse, meant to appear human until the day he would take his Father's throne, but…he should have been developing power of _some_ kind by now. Crowley was beginning to worry something had gone wrong at the hospital. Perhaps he should have supervised after all.

If Warlock _wasn't_ the Antichrist, well…he wasn't quite sure what that might mean. But it was all the more reason to be on his guard, and at his best.

Crowley was trying to take better care of himself. He knew needed to be more present for the boy than was sometimes the case. He still struggled with depression a great deal. Even with all the purpose and meaning that childrearing gave him, the void hadn't gone anywhere. To try and mitigate the effects, he'd begun practicing mindfulness, taking a few minutes each morning and evening to meditate, center himself. He'd even found a focus.

He was away on the day of Warlock's accident because he'd used his day off to swing by his old flat and pick up the cufflink. He found it under his bed once again, left behind when Lucifer had pulled him down to Hell. He knew it would make a perfect meditation focus. It had always been a calming presence for him, and it still was. It was also probably helping to strip away his demonic programming even faster than before, but he was all right with that. He'd never wanted to be that demon, anyway, not in his right mind. Still, he worried about being discovered with it, and kept it very well-hid, in a box shielded against prying occult eyes.

Warlock, The End, Hell, his own mental health and safety…Crowley worried about a lot these days.

* * *

#### Adam 

He is nine years old. He is sitting in Mr. Fell's kitchen, as familiar as his own, perhaps even more. His parents are away for two whole weeks on a long planned-for holiday and Mr. Fell is minding him, like he always does. Mr. Fell is very nearly another parent to Adam, and Adam likes that just fine. He loves Mr. Fell just as much as he loves his parents, and the Them. He's always been here, always been interested in what Adam has to say, always ready to offer a helping hand or a word of advice. 

Adam has come in from a hard morning's play for some lunch. He is munching on the quiche he helped Mr. Fell prepare, and staring at him, watching him putter around the kitchen, washing up, putting things away. He's still staring when Mr. Fell returns to the table and sits down for another helping. Mr. Fell notices and gives him a quizzical look.

"Something on your mind?" he says kindly. He's always so kind.

"Mr. Fell…" he hesitates. For all his confidence, knows to an extent that the question he's about to ask isn't the sort of thing one asks people. He doesn't want to offend him…but he wants to know more about his friend. Mr. Fell raises his eyebrows and sets down his fork. Adam furrows his brow.

"Why are you so sad all the time?"

Mr. Fell doesn't react outwardly at all, at first. He keeps his expression neutral, doesn't even change his posture. But behind his eyes, his thoughts are racing. Adam can see this, read it intuitively, like body language. Nothing concrete, but enough to form impressions. He's not sure whether other people have this sort of ability, but he's so used to it that he's never really questioned it. To him, it's simply another form of insight, of understanding people.3

So he can tell that Mr. Fell is shocked and surprised and, somehow, even more saddened by this question. But what comes out of Mr. Fell's mouth is a calm, congenial, "Whatever do you mean?"

Adam frowns further, annoyed that he will have to play this game. This is a common game with adults, the 'let's pretend we're thinking something different' game. It makes everything so difficult. As Adam sees it, if people would just say what they really wanted to instead of dancing around everything forever, life would be a lot easier for everybody.

"I mean you're sad all the time. Like, everybody's sad sometimes, and some people are sadder than others, but you're always sad. Even when you're happy, you're sad. It's never not there. Why? What's the matter?"

Mr. Fell purses his lips, laces his fingers in front of him on the table, and looks down at his plate. He stays this way for a very, very long time. He's clearly trying to decide what to say, and how to say it, and Adam is happy to wait. He asked a question, he expects an answer. He always gets his questions answered, eventually, no matter who he's asking. He just needs patience. Adam has been practicing his patience, a virtue according to Mr. Fell.

After several minutes, Mr. Fell looks back up at Adam. His face is still neutral, but now his eyes are letting his thoughts through, and he's not only sad, he's frightened, maybe even a little panicked. That sort-of frightens Adam as well, but he resolves to be brave. He was brave enough to ask, he is brave enough to hear the answer.

"You've asked a particularly complex question, my dear, and I'm afraid the answer is so complicated I'm not sure how to put it in a way you'd understand. Not to mention, there are several details about my life that I'm simply not willing to disclose to anyone, not even to you. And even if I were so inclined, the answer to that question is not at all the sort of thing one discusses with a child."

Adam actually loves that Mr. Fell does this, it makes him unique among the adults he's encountered. Whenever Mr. Fell doesn't have an answer to something, he'll explain why in minute detail. This is sometimes more helpful overall than an actual answer might be. But in this case, Adam feels the need to push. Because while Mr. Fell seems to be telling the truth, Adam can tell he's also holding something back that he could say if he wanted to. Adam only needs to make him want to.

"Okay, so it's a secret, but we're friends. Friends tell each other secrets all the time! That's sort-of what friends are, isn't it? Somebody you can tell things to, that you can't tell other people?"

Mr. Fell shakes his head, "That's true in many ways, but ours isn't that sort of friendship. I am essentially your mentor, and that means I have a certain amount of influence over the way you see the world. You are still learning about life, after all, and the things adults say can have far-reaching consequences on children, more than you know. It would be very inappropriate for me to speak to you the way I might to an adult, and that includes talking about myself in certain ways. The problems I have are adult problems, and allowing you to take them on, even to know about them perhaps, would be placing an unfair burden on you."

"But I want to help!" Adam says impulsively, and immediately regrets it, because now Mr. Fell is sadder than before. He's nearing the sort of sadness level he reaches when he spends all his time at the library and doesn't come home for days on end. Adam is concerned he may be making things worse, but he's not quite sure how to stop now that he's started. Mr. Fell is looking at him like he's about to break the news that his cat has died.

"I know you do, dear-heart, but that's just what I mean. You mustn't try to help adults with adult problems, it's not healthy for you. If I were to give you the sort of answer you're looking for, I would be, in-effect, harming you. I'm not willing to do that, even if you ask."

Adam crosses his arms and sulks. There it is, the grown-up, "this is for your own good" talk adults love so much. That talk is typically reserved for things like, "No, you may not play on the roof", and "You will learn to drive when it is legally permissible", and "Beetroot is nutritious and you will eat it, no matter how unbearably awful it makes the house smell". But this is the first time an adult has pulled it out in order to avoid answering a question. Of all the adults in his life, he would never have expected it from Mr. Fell, and he is disappointed in him.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a while, picking at their lunches and avoiding each other's eyes. Eventually, though, Mr. Fell sighs a familiar, resigned sigh, and Adam looks up at him, eager and ready to listen.

"I appreciate it, dear, I really do. It's sweet that you're concerned for me, and I'm quite touched. And I don't want to worry you, so I suppose I can't very well acknowledge that you're correct and then say nothing further, can I?"

Adam knows it's rhetorical, but he shakes his head anyway, nearly managing to keep the smirk off his face.

"So…I'll say this. I've been through some things which…changed me. I'm not the person I once was, and it's not easy for me to live with. I'm all right, really, but…in a way, you could say that some very important parts of my life are missing, and I know I can never get them back. And their absence, and that knowledge, does make me very sad."

As he proceeds through this explanation, Mr. Fell is increasingly trying not to cry, and increasingly failing. By the end, he pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabs his eyes. Adam is sad too, but it's the sort of sad you feel when a friend is sad and there's really nothing you can do.

Mr. Fell gathers himself, sniffles once, and puts his handkerchief away. He smiles at Adam, and the boy can sense that it's genuine. 

"I can honestly say that being a neighbor and a friend to you and your family has been a great comfort to me for many years. I'm very glad to know you, Adam Young. It helps, knowing one has real friends. That's not a thing I'm used to, really, not for a very long time." A bit of sadness returns to his eyes, "…Another life..." he whispers.

He clears his throat and looks away, and Adam knows he's finished. That's fine. The sadness isn't as strong now, and that's encouraging enough. Adam's mum is always saying that talking about one's problems can help, and he's seen a demonstration of it here. He's sorry he's made Mr. Fell cry, but he's glad he asked. It seems like an important thing to know.

"Well," Mr. Fell says, in as breezy a tone as if the entire conversation had never happened, "Seeing as lunchtime's just about over, I think it's time for a treat, don't you? What do you think you and the Them would say to some ice cream? My treat."

Adam beams, "Brilliant!"

* * *

The entire conversation had been an ordeal. The question came out of nowhere, and it came with such an utter _compulsion_ to answer. He'd nearly had to physically stop himself from blurting out every secret he held. He'd only managed to get around it by speaking the absolute truth about what he could, choosing his words carefully. And the fact that the question had been asked at all, that Adam seemed to know _precisely_ what he was thinking…it was unreal. He'd never been so afraid for control over his own mind, not even in the years he spent chipping away at himself to try and prevent a Fall that never came. It was _terrifying_. And yet, it wasn't all that surprising, not really.

After years of interaction with the boy, Aziraphale was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion about Adam, one that the boy's apparent attention filter couldn't banish from his mind. Given what he knew about the Great Plan, the timing was about right, though Heaven hadn't said anything to him about it. But then, they didn't say much of anything to him about anything anymore, did they? He was practically _persona non grata_ up there these days. But to not even warn him of Armageddon? That seemed a bit low even for them. His faith in God was unwavering, but after everything that had happened, everything he knew now, his faith in Heaven had all but shattered. After all, had his choices and actions been truly sinful, he would have Fallen long ago, long before they'd taken his life away from him. He was in no way interested in helping Heaven or its interests any longer. They had betrayed him, not the other way around.

So, they wouldn't tell him that the Adversary had been born, that Aziraphale's days on Earth were limited? Fine. He would play their game.

He wouldn't tell them that the Adversary most likely lived next door, and by all appearances, was growing to be a very polite, well spoken, upstanding young man.

* * *

#### Warlock

He is nine years old. His father has been in America for two weeks, and will remain there for the next four months. His mother is in Mallorca on some week-long holiday with a gaggle of girlfriends. He is currently throwing fist-sized rocks at the side of the house, trying very hard to chip the plaster.

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and he looks up to see Nanny standing beside him. He knows the hand isn't intended to stop him, only inform him of her presence. She never tries to stop him from doing what he wants, unless it's terribly bad or terribly dangerous. But he tosses the newest rock aside, anyway. He feels guilty and doesn't really know why. She doesn't say anything, radiates no sense of anger or disapproval. She's just Nanny, steady and present, like always.

"I hate them," Warlock says, feeling a need to explain anyway, "I hate this stupid house, and I hate this stupid country, and I hate them!"

"Hmm," she says, passive, non-judgemental.

"They missed my birthday on purpose."

"Did they?" Her voice is even and casual, the precise opposite of how Warlock feels.

"Yes! They knew it was my birthday, but they don't even care! Dad didn't even call me! I hope they never come back, they don't even love me!"

"Well, I don't know if I'd go that far."

"I would!" he picks up the rock again and hurls it at the wall, "They hate me, and I hate them!"

He hates that he's crying, he's too old to cry, but he doesn't care. Nanny kneels beside him and turns him to face her. She keeps her hands on his shoulders. He struggles a moment, but he doesn't really want her to let go, so he stops eventually. She patiently awaits his attention before she speaks.

"They are only human. They are doing the best they can, and even so, their best might not be enough. One's best often isn't enough, not in the end. But they're trying. Nobody gets perfect parents, it doesn't work like that. But they do both love you, in their way. Even if you can't see it."

"No they don't! You don't know!" he's getting hysterical, "You can't know what they think! They don't love me! Nobody loves me!"

"Oh, my darling boy," she's still quiet, still calm, but her tone has gained much more emotion than usual, "That is simply not true."

He throws his arms around her, lays his head on her shoulder, and bawls. She holds him, squeezes him so tight a hurricane couldn't pull him from her arms.

"Listen to me now," she says into his ear, forceful but so very compassionate, "You will always be loved, my darling, every moment of every day. You're right, I can't know their minds, but I know mine, and I love you so very much. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, no matter who you grow to be, I will always, always, always love you. Do you understand me?"

He quiets down a little, nods into the crook of her neck. She smells of roses and campfires and safety and home.

"Promise?"

There's a pause before she answers, and when she does, he knows it's because she's holding back her own tears.

"With my whole heart."

* * *

Crowley sat in the quiet of his room, the cufflink held out before him. He concentrated, felt its warmth, the celestial energy still so potent, so present, inside its tiny package. He breathed deep, thought about the day.

It had been a hard one, for both of them. He hoped he'd said the right things, done the right things. The boy seemed alright by bedtime, but who knew with children? For his part, Crowley had helped the boy set up his new gaming console, plopped him in front of it, retreated to his room, and cried for an hour. It broke his heart to see the little boy ( _his_ little boy) hurt for even a moment, but he knew how deep that hurt could run. He knew what it was like to feel rejected by family; he'd felt it twice over.

Worse, he'd been close to certain for a while now that Warlock was not the Antichrist. He was a normal, human little boy. Crowley had cocked it up, somehow, and now the Antichrist was essentially a free agent. This presented several problems:

Firstly, it meant that somewhere out there, another little boy was out there raising literal Hell and getting away with it. If the real Antichrist were discovered, Hell would know something was up. Lucifer would know he'd failed. Given what he knew about the Antichrist's general defenses, it was a long shot - he should be all but invisible to anyone who didn't already know about him. But the chance was still there.

Secondly, it meant that if push came to shove, he might need to devise some personal protection for Warlock. If Hell ever did discover what was up, it was hard to say how they'd react, but he doubted it would be pleasant. Best case scenario, they'd ignore the boy entirely and shove all the consequences onto Crowley. Worst case scenario, well…he'd already gone ahead and discreetly warded the house and grounds against Hellfire, major curses, and demonic possession. But there was only so much he could do.4

Thirdly, it meant that Armageddon was inevitable. He'd already known this, of course, he'd known since the literal Beginning. But he'd come to hope that maybe it wouldn't have to happen. Maybe Warlock, and his family, and this world he'd once loved and was beginning to love again, could be spared from an apocalypse. But there was no hope for that now. And it ate away at him every day.

He took a few minutes to clear his mind, and set the cufflink down. He stood up, and frowned. He could still feel its energy. Normally once he set the thing down, the feeling would dissipate, but there was something…he closed his eyes, concentrated on it. The feeling wasn't coming from the cufflink. It was in the air itself, mingled with the other astral signals all around him. It was as if he could actually sense…

No, it was gone again. He lost the signal, and almost immediately, he dismissed it as wishful thinking. He hadn't actually sensed it. He hadn't ever before, he wouldn't start now. It wasn't even possible, not without already knowing where the angel was and having him in sight. It was a distraction, anyway. What good would it do him to know, after everything that had happened?

* * *

3\. Mr. Fell is harder to read, on-average, for whatever reason. But he's Adam's oldest friend, he's known Mr. Fell longer than he's even known the Them. He's somewhat of an expert in Mr. Fell, and this question has been bubbling for nearly a year now, ever since he worked out just what it is he's seeing. [Back]

4\. Anything more, and he'd limit his own power, or endanger himself, which would rather defeat the point. [Back]

* * *

#### Adam 

He is eleven years old. Today is his birthday. He's just received the precise present he wanted, just as described to his friends. Now he and the Them are headed back to his house, to make the case for keeping Dog.

"He'll never let you," Pepper says, without a hint of sympathy.

"He's quite against it, actually," Wensleydale pushes up his glasses, "He was even telling my dad yesterday that he didn't like you asking so much, that he didn't want one in the house."

"You could keep him in the quarry," Brian says, uncertain, "Or no, there's the pond…But dogs can swim, right? So he'll be fine. You could keep him secret. He could be our mascot."

"No," Adam cuts them off with a tone that says the conversation is over, "He's my Dog and I'm going to keep him."

The other three Them glance warily at each other. Adam has seemed a bit out of sorts lately, and today his typically stubborn attitude seems to have kicked into overdrive. They hope it won't continue on like this, he's been more bossy than usual. Sure, he may be the boss, but that doesn't mean he has to be a prat about it.

As they reach the mouth of the quarry, they find Mr. Fell standing along the edge with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Hi Mr. Fell," Brian says, waving, "Look what we found!"

Mr. Fell jumps, as though he's just noticed they were there, even though he quite literally watched them approach. He shakes his head and smiles at them.

"Hello…oh, you've er, you've got a dog there, have you? Wherever did that come from?"

Adam smiles, "He's mine! I wanted him for my birthday, and he came!"

Mr. Fell's smile falters a bit and he struggles to put it back on, "Oh, well! Isn't that nice? Forgive me, children, I've, er…I've got to get home, I've got something in the oven, just out for a stroll, you know, ah, fresh air and all that. Well, pleasure seeing you all, I'll just, er, I'll be off now."

He hurries away and the Them watch him go, baffled. They shrug at each other and continue on.

"Actually, shouldn't he be at the library?" Wensleydale says after a bit, "How odd."

"Oh yeah," says Brian, scratching his nose and getting a not-inconsiderable amount of chocolate on it, "I've never seen him miss a Literary Classics Tuesday Reading before."

Pepper rolls her eyes, "Attend a lot of Literary Classics Tuesday Readings, do you?"

"Yeah, I do in fact, I think they're very interesting, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't hassle me about it, all right?"

"It doesn't matter!" Adam says suddenly and quite forcefully, startling the other three into slowing their pace. He turns to face them, "He's probably just taking a day off to help my mum get ready for my birthday. Never mind him, we've got Dog to consider. Now stop nattering and keep up!"

He marches away, and the three follow dutifully, if a bit warily. When they get to his house they each notice, but don't dare mention, that although Adam's mother is indeed in the kitchen preparing for the evening, Mr. Fell is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Aziraphale was out taking a perfectly normal morning stroll that was not at all an excuse to tail Adam, like he had not at all been doing for the past week, when he felt the surge of energy in the street. He hid behind a large boulder, for all the good it would do him - the accursed Binding left him utterly unable to defend himself against demonic attack, and he was certain that was what he felt. When he heard the awful, gut-wrenching noise and peeked around the corner, the confirmation was somehow worse than he imagined.

There was a hellhound in the street. It was easily five feet high, with a dripping, ravenous jaw and glowing red eyes. When it began padding over to him, he honestly thought it might be the end for him. But the hellhound stopped short of where he was hiding, attention focused down into the quarry…down toward Adam.

Aziraphale could hear the children's voices from where he stood. He listened, shaken to his core, as Adam first declared that he would get a dog, and then proceeded to describe it in detail. And he watched, first in horror, then in confusion, as the hellhound shifted and warped, shaped itself to its Master's specifications. As he watched the small terrier bound down the hill toward the Them, he really wasn't sure what to think.

He'd hoped he was wrong. He'd hoped he was trying to inject a bit of intrigue into his dull life, make up a story he could entertain himself with. But deep down he'd known he wasn't, and the hellhound confirmed it. Adam Young was the Antichrist, and the world would End in a matter of days.

At least the way he'd shaped his hellhound seemed to point to a potential hole in the demonic Plan. Aziraphale still held out hope that Adam would fight against his nature, take the lessons his parents and Aziraphale himself had taught him and put them to good use. But he didn't hold out much hope for it, given what he'd already witnessed. Given the lay-lines of power he could feel swirling around the town, centering in on the boy.

His only hope was to try and find a way to tip the scales, convince Adam to rebel somehow. He didn't want a war. He didn't want to fight, certainly not for Heaven, but not for Hell either. He wanted the Earth to be left alone. But he'd procrastinated in researching anything, because he'd still been trying to convince himself that there was nothing to research, that it was all in his head. Now the clock was ticking, and who knew when the alarm would sound? The Horsemen were likely already assembling, and once they reached the boy, it was over. All of it.

He headed to the library, intent on reading every Occult book in the place. It couldn't hurt. And he didn't know what else to do.

* * *

#### Warlock

He is eleven years old. Today is his birthday. His parents certainly remembered his birthday this year. They went all-out, in fact. The party is huge, a grand affair suited to a child of his station.

Today is also Nanny's last day. Warlock is trying to act as though this doesn't bother him. He's too old for a nanny. He's practically grown-up. He shouldn't care at all. He secretly cares a great deal. All day, he ignores her, and all day, a part of him feels very bad about it.

After everyone has left, as evening approaches, he finds her sitting at a table on the back patio, idly tracing the rim of a wine glass she clearly hasn't touched, staring off into the distance. She looks upset, and that's one of the more unsettling images he's ever encountered in his life. If something is upsetting Nanny, it's very possible the entire world might be ending.

He sits next to her but doesn't speak. He isn't sure what to say, how to put words to the tumult of emotion running through him. When she finally speaks, her gaze remains on the sun's slow descent into the horizon, her expression unchanged. It's so quiet, he doesn't even know if she's talking to him.

"There's no time. And you'll be on your own, now, I won't be here to…"

She stops herself, and Warlock can't understand what she's trying to say. She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and produces a pendant on a dark leather cord. She sets it down on the table in front of him. He looks at it. It's not particularly flashy - two silver, skeletal hands grasping a shiny black stone. It looks like the sort of thing one might purchase on a whim at the sort of shop that sells tarot cards and crystals. But there's something compelling about it. He wants to touch it, and he looks at her. She nods in silent permission, and he picks it up.

"That's yours, dearest. It's meant to protect you. I know you don't tend to go in for such things, but please keep it with you, for me. It doesn't look like much, but it's much more powerful than it seems."

Nanny used to talk like this a lot when he was much younger, but it's been years since she's so much as hinted at her occult leanings. Still, there's a weight to her tone, a sincerity in her words, that makes him want to believe her. He pulls the pendant over his head and, after thinking about it a moment, tucks it beneath his shirt, hiding the cord under his collar. There's a comforting weight to the thing, and it sits warm against his chest. Wordlessly, he leans into her side, and puts an arm around her. She returns the gesture, plants a kiss on his forehead.

"Good thinking, keeping it well-hid," she says, "You were always such a clever one. I'm very proud of you, you know." 

He blushes and tries to struggle away, "Aw, Nanny, don't!" She's ruining a perfectly nice moment with mushiness.

She chuckles and lets him go, "All right, I know. Couldn't help it."

They sit in silence for a few minutes. The beginnings of supper are wafting from the kitchen chimney and the smell is heavenly. On any other day, he'd rush into the kitchen for an early taste. Right now, he doesn't want to move from this spot.

"…Are you leaving today?"

She nods, her smile fading.

"After dark," she says, and something about the way she says it makes him shiver.

"…You could take me with you."

She looks startled. So many unfamiliar expressions on her face today. She watches him for a long moment, almost as if she's considering it. Then she frowns a regretful frown. 

"No, I couldn't."

"Yes you can! I hate it here! I want to go with you!"

"I can't, love. You know I can't." She sounds genuinely sorry for it.

"Why?" He jumps to his feet, "Why can't you be my mom?"

She shakes her head, "You already have a mother, dearest. I couldn't possibly replace her." 

His eyes are filling with tears, and before he can stop himself, he throws his arms around her.

"But I want you to!" he wails, all pretense of cool, detached pre-teen gone, "I love you, Nanny! With my whole heart!"

She takes a shaky breath and hugs back. He follows her pull and sits in her lap, head on her shoulder, suddenly terrified to let go. She squeezes him tight. 

"I love you so so much, my darling boy. Forever and forever. Nothing will ever change that, no matter where either of us are. But you have a home here. I can't take you from it, and you know very well what would happen if I were to try."

"…I know," he says, with begrudging acceptance, sniffling back his tears. He sinks his full weight into her. She rocks him like she used to, when he was little.

They sit that way until Warlock's mother calls him in for supper. He's calmed down considerably, and is somewhat ravenous, so he hops down and runs off without a look back or another word. 

She doesn't mind. It was a better goodbye than anything she's ever known.

* * *

No Hellhound. No sudden awakening of latent powers. No sign he was anything more than the human Crowley knew he was, deep down. He'd spent the day in ever-increasing panic, tempered only by his need to keep up appearances. The sweet goodbye was somewhat of a reprieve, but it was a small one. At least Warlock had taken the pendant. Crowley had imbued it with a bevvy of protective curses and wards. Anyone, human or demon, who tried to harm the boy in any way would regret it. But it was only a temporary measure. After the End, none of it would matter.

Four days. The world would end in four days, unless he could find some way to stop it. And he had no idea how he could possibly do that. He didn't know if anyone could. But he did know someone who might know more, and he was pretty sure he knew where to find him.

He'd been sure of it for a year now: he could definitely detect the angel's signature. Meditating over it for so long must have pushed through the barrier that was muffling it, enabled him to sense it like he would any other supernatural force. The angel was to the Northwest, maybe forty miles away. He'd been there for the entire year Crowley could sense him, likely much longer. He didn't have an exact location, but he knew if he headed in that direction, his senses would lead him where he needed to go.

But he couldn't go straight there, it would arouse too much suspicion. He was expected back down below tomorrow at the latest, and if he didn't show up, they would send someone up to fetch him. He'd check in, then slip away, give some excuse as to why he had to get back. As long as he was out of Hell before the Horsemen converged, he could keep them at bay for at least a little while. Then he would seek out the angel and see if he could help.

And even if he couldn't, he'd at least get to see him again, if only for a day or two, at the End of Everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Abuse, Brainwashing, Denial
> 
> BTW, the novel puts the boys' birthday on Wednesday, and the series puts it on Monday, so I split the difference. *shrug*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

2315\. Sum say It cometh in London Town, or New Yorke, butte they be Wronge, for the plase is Taddes Fild, Stronge inne hys powr, he cometh like a knight inne the fief, he divideth the Worlde into 4 partes, he bringeth the storme.

* * *

#### Thursday, 2 Days to Armageddon

The sunrise over England that morning was perfect. Literally. It was the sort of thing one might see in a big-budget blockbuster, the director choosing to rely upon CGI rendering rather than trust the capricious whims of nature. The sky glowed in spectacular reds and oranges and yellows, clouds passed along it in picturesque vignettes against the silhouettes of birds. Several dozen nature photographers nearly jumped for joy to learn this morning's choice to wait around for dawn was the best decision of their professional careers.1

Aziraphale hadn't even noticed it was light outside. He'd spent the past day at a research table in the back of the library, neck-deep in (mostly useless) books on everything from Thelemic philosophy and Gnostic ritual, to Neo-Paganism and the Law of Attraction. He was growing increasingly despondent about his chances of discovering anything useful, when the young woman entered the library with purpose. He didn't notice her either, too occupied to pay attention to patrons (that was what the other librarians were for, after all), but she looked around only seconds before making a beeline for his table. A shadow fell over his current book,2 and he looked up into deep, brown eyes beneath owlish glasses. She looked him over, studying him closely as though trying to puzzle out a mystery.

"Ah," Aziraphale said, in as polite a tone as he could manage after having been interrupted, "If you need assistance, young lady, I'm afraid you've passed the the Information Desk on your way back here." He tried to casually wave at it, and it came off as more of a shooing motion, which was what he actually meant by the gesture, so it was just as well.

The young lady sat down across from him, plopped a staggeringly large bag onto the table with a thunk, and pulled a book from it. She opened it gingerly, flipped through the pages and ran her finger down a page. She moved her lips along with whatever passage she read, and looked back up at him. He watched the strange woman, transfixed by her strange behavior, and curious about her book. She nodded to herself.

"You're the head librarian, aren't you?"

"I…ah…yes."

"I need to speak with you. It's very urgent," she glanced around nervously, though no one was within earshot, "and very private."

"I'm afraid I'm indisposed at the moment, my dear," he gestured to the piles upon piles of books surrounding him, "I'm working on a vital research project and mustn't be disturbed, so if you'll excuse me…"

He made to open the book again in the hopes she would leave. She stayed put.

"Busy trying to figure out how to stop the Antichrist?" she said with bold, quiet surety, and his head darted up again.

" _I beg your pardon?_ " He couldn't possibly have heard her correctly.

"You are, aren't you? So am I - I've been sent here to stop the End of the World."

Aziraphale's jaw worked a bit while his brain caught up. He was trying to decide whether this woman was mad or a literal godsend.

"I…er…" he said, finally, "Sent by whom?"

She closed the book, spun it around, and carefully slid it over to him. As he read the cover, his eyes widened, lit in utter delight.

"My ancestor," she said, "Agnes Nutter."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, they were in Aziraphale's living room, along with the few books they agreed might actually be useful alongside the Nice and Accurate Prophecies. Anathema popped home to pick up some gear, and she had just about finished setting it up. Aziraphale had barely spoken two words to her since opening the book, shortly after she slid it over to him. He flipped through it for the entire walk home, fascinated. He turned back to the first prophecy she'd shown him, the one she claimed led her straight to him.

* * *

3843\. Childe, seek ye outte the keper of Tomes, for He maketh to Tame the Beast. The Book sharl proove thy honestee. Taketh of the Angels wysdom, and of his crumbe cake, if ye So desyr.

* * *

"But how did you know I'd be in Tadfield, of all places? I had a bookshop in London for years, you know."

"I told you," she said, measured but not exactly patient, "It's all there, you just have to piece it together. And my family has been doing exactly that for over three hundred years."

Aziraphale set down the book and picked up his plate. He took a bite of the crumb cake he'd made only a few days before, and chewed thoughtfully.

"Okay," Anathema said, inspecting the map she'd hung on the wall, "So I've done some surveying the past few days, and asked around to some of the locals, and I think I've made some headway in finding the boy. Do you have any leads?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, mouth still half-full, "That one's covered, I know exactly where to find him."

She turned to look at him, astonished.

"Were you planning to tell _me_ at some point?"

He swallowed and shrugged, "You didn't ask."

She looked at him expectantly. He looked back.

"…So where is he?"

"Well, I'm not _precisely_ sure at the moment, but I'm sure he's out gallivanting with his friends just now. He'll be along, eventually. He almost always pops in for lunch. I'd expect him around eleven thirty or so."

Anathema sat down, bewildered, "I'm sorry, you're planning to have _lunch_ …with the _Antichrist_?"

Aziraphale grimaced, "I _do_ wish we didn't have to use that word. He's such a _nice_ boy, really, you'll see. You'll understand once you've met him. I believe we should be able to come to a peaceful resolution to this whole thing, as long as we can get him to listen to reason."

She stared at him a while longer before giving up and trying to just digest the information. She took a bite of her cake and chewed absently. Aziraphale went right back to the book, reading the cross-reference notations attached to the prophecy about him. There were several - it seemed he was all over this book…

"Um…" she said eventually, and he gave her his attention, "Could you…settle a family bet for me? That part about 'the Angel's wisdom' has been a point of contention for centuries. Do you have some sort of book or scroll of ancient wisdom or something, or is it something that's been passed down orally-?"

"That one's easy," Aziraphale said, smiling only a bit smugly, "The angel is me."3

She smiled back at him, "Thank you for the confirmation! My mother owes me ten bucks, and my aunt's on the hook for fifty. But why are you 'the angel'? Is it some sort of nickname?"

"Oh no, Agnes is using the literal definition there."

She gave him an annoyed, wilting look, clearly assuming he was having her on. But he simply smiled back at her, patient.

"Literal like…"

"Like an ethereal being sent by the Lord Almighty to watch over humanity, yes."

She scoffed, "You're telling me you're an _actual_ angel? Like, halo, wings, all that?"

He nodded. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before she found her voice again.

"…Please don't take this the wrong way, but you're…not exactly…what I'd expect."

He sighed, "Well, I'm afraid I'm not quite in fighting form at the moment, shall we say. But I am most definitely an Angel of the Lord. I can prove it if you like."

She nodded, somewhat hesitantly. He stood and centered himself, closed his eyes, concentrated. He hadn't tested this since he was Bound, and he sincerely hoped he wasn't about to make a fool of himself. He tried to manifest his wings. The young woman's gasp said he'd succeeded, and he opened his eyes to inspect them. Then he gasped himself. He'd known intellectually, but he hadn't been prepared for the reality. There was a reason he hadn't done this in several years.

His wings were laced through with the same Celestial script that covered his arms, individual golden feathers grown to form the words. He tried not to look as ashamed as he felt, aware that Anathema's look of wonder and awe was genuine, and that no matter how thorough of a study the young woman was, humans were physically incapable of reading true Celestial. If one didn't know what one was looking at, the shimmering, golden pattern would have seemed both random, and quite beautiful. But Aziraphale knew it for what it was, and it made his stomach churn. Heaven didn't need to remove his wings to clip them; the Bindings kept him grounded all the same. Self-conscious, he quickly stowed them away again and sat back down, feeling awkward and sad.

Anathema continued to stare just over his shoulder. He glanced where she was looking, wondering if he'd neglected to fully put them away, but they were gone, from this plane, anyway. He gave her a questioning look and she looked away, blushing.

"Sorry, I…I can see auras. Now that I know they're there, I can still see them a little. I don't mean to be rude, I'll try not to stare."

"No, no it's all right, I understand. Not something one sees every day, I'm sure."

"No, it certainly isn't." She sipped her tea, took another bite of cake, otherwise seemingly unfazed by the experience, "Well then. What do you know about the Anti- the boy?"

"Well," Aziraphale said breezily, glad for the change of subject, "for starters, his name is Adam."

She gave him another long stare, but this one was more astonishment than skepticism.

"Adam _Young_?"

"Yes! Have you met him?"

"Yes! A couple of days ago! I ran into him and his friends playing some sort of weird game, and asked him some questions, I thought he might know more about kids in the area. He came by my house yesterday! I talked to that kid for two hours! I gave him a sandwich! And half my back-issues of _New Aquarian_!"

"Oh, did you?" Aziraphale was genuinely pleased, "Then you see just what I mean. Do you honestly believe that boy could possibly succumb to the forces of evil?"

She sat in thought for a few moments before nodding decisively.

"…I believe Agnes. And she says he will."

"But if it's a foregone conclusion, then why are you here? You must believe you can stop it, you said as much when you first approached me."

"I believe I have a role to play, and I believe that role is for the good of the Earth," she shrugged, "That's all I know. The rest is just following the breadcrumbs and seeing where they lead. Speaking of which, do you have the time?"

"Er…" Aziraphale checked his pocket watch, "About half-past nine?"

"Augh, I should have called Shadwell fifteen minutes ago, I'm letting myself get distracted. Do you have a phone?"

"I _think_ so, yes…I rarely use them, let me think…I believe there's one in the kitchen."

She stood to leave and Aziraphale followed after her.

"I'm sorry, did you just say _Shadwell_? As in the Witchfinder Sergeant?"

"Yes, why, do you know him?"

"Well yes, I…how do _you_ …but I thought you said _you_ were a witch?"

She crossed to the landline telephone hanging on the wall, a relic at least 30 years old. 4

She picked up the receiver, "I am, but he doesn't know that. He only knows my family writes the checks. He thinks we're his Head Office."

"But…you… _why_?"

She dialed, raised the phone to her ear, and nodded at the book, "322 and 323."

Aziraphale opened the book.

* * *

322\. Fromme myne owne seed, the Armie of myne enemie sharl thryve. Notte bye fyre, nor rope, nor pyn, nor powdred shotte, but stille by coine doth the cofers bee fill'd

323\. Keepe the wreches clofe, butte reveel notte wat ye be, for fooles hath partes to playe alfo, comme the tyme of Beast's comande

* * *

"Huh," he said, "Small world, I suppose."

The other end of the line picked up, and Anathema spoke in a more pronounced American accent than she had a moment ago.

"Morning Trace, it's me. Is he in? Sure, no problem."

She stared stone-faced out the window until Shadwell came to the phone. Then Aziraphale watched in fascinated horror as she smiled wider and more toothily than he thought her otherwise stoic face could possibly allow, and put on an affect that could only be described as part New York stockbroker, part California starlet.

"Hiya Sargent! Oh not bad, things are pretty quiet over here. Yep, all sunshine in the States!" she gave Aziraphale a knowing look and rolled her eyes, then put the act back on, "Hey listen, a little birdie told me you got a new recruit. Perfect! Look, we've got a mission for him. Real important. You ever heard of a town called Tadfield? Yeah, me neither, but apparently there's a whole coven up there. Right. Yeah, immediately, soon as you can. Yep, nipples everywhere, hey get a pen okay? I've got an address for you."

She gave the address for Jasmine Cottage, thanked the Sergeant, and hung up the phone. Her face fell immediately, and her nose scrunched in distaste.

"Well, that's over with. Sorry you had to see that, it's just…well you know Shadwell, you get better results if you're who he expects you to be, am I right?"

Aziraphale smiled, "I know precisely what you mean."

* * *

They compared notes on Adam, and Aziraphale caught her up on everything he'd seen over the past eleven years. Lunchtime came and went with no sign of the boy, which worried the both of them. They switched on the radio, and worried more at the reports of strange goings-on the world over, confirming several of Agnes' prophecies, just as Anathema knew they would. But though they worked together the rest of the day trying to find ways to tip the scales in their favor, they came up short.

"It's all right," Anathema said eventually, beginning to pack up, "The real thick of it isn't due to start until at least tomorrow, anyway. Why don't we call it a day? I'd like to keep cross-referencing all this new info, and I'll need some more time."

"Yes, well, I suppose there's no sense beating our heads against the wall, is there? I think you're probably right. I'll pop in on his parents in a while, make sure they're holding up all right, see if I can't learn anything more from them."

"Sounds like a plan, let me give you my number, we can catch up tomorrow."

She scribbled onto a stray piece of paper, tore it in half, and gave both halves and her pencil to Aziraphale, who dutifully wrote down his own number and handed it back.

Anathema smiled, "I'm expecting Shadwell's man either late tomorrow or early Saturday, so if you don't hear from me, assume I'm occupied. We'll meet up again by Saturday evening, anyway."

"Will we? Oh, I suppose…"

"Yep, all according to plan."

She walked to the door, then paused and thought a moment.

"You know what, hang on," she dug into her enormous bag and pulled out a manila folder, thick with paper. She handed it to him.

"Here, that's a quick-reference copy of the most relevant prophecies for the past century leading up through Saturday. Maybe you'll be able to piece together something I couldn't."

"Oh! Thank you, I'll see what I can do. It was a pleasure meeting you, young lady, I must say I'm glad to have a compatriot in all this."

"Me too. Thanks Ezra, I'll keep in touch."

"Oh," he caught her before she walked off, "ah, it's Aziraphale, actually."

"…Right. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Aziraphale. Have a good night."

"And a good night to you, my dear."

She climbed onto her bicycle and rode off, somehow managing to balance with her impossible bag at her side. Aziraphale looked worriedly at the darkening sky - night was falling, but it didn't look right though he wasn't sure exactly how. He closed the door, and opened the folder. It held about thirty large, double-sided, small-font typed pages of prophecy. Perhaps he would be able to find something here. Perhaps with the young lady's help, he might actually be able to save poor Adam from succumbing to his fate.

* * *

1\. But didn't, as jumping would risk disturbing their tripods. [Back]

2\. Which was just as well, he didn't have high hopes of learning anything of value from The Celestine Prophecy anyway. [Back]

3\. It wasn't the first time he'd revealed himself to a human, though he'd only done it on very rare occasion throughout his life, and he knew current circumstances didn't warrant his being coy. [Back]

4\. Aziraphale never used it. He enjoyed the tactile experience of a rotary dial and found the push-buttons of more modern devices outright soulless. [Back]

* * *

#### Friday, 1 Day to Armageddon

The trip back to Earth was uneventful, save for Crowley's own racing mind. It was easy enough to claim he still had loose ends to tie up, planning for the End. Really, his Lower-Downs were too occupied with war preparations to care much what he did. Beelzebub hadn't said a word to him in years, and Hastur and Ligur were busy preparing to get the Dowlings to Megiddo to meet the Horsemen, so he knew they would leave him be as long as he was back by the time the call to battle came. And if things went the way he hoped they would, maybe that call would never come.

He found the little village with no trouble. The angel's energy was a gentle gravity, leading him where he needed to go. He pulled onto the little, suburban street in the late afternoon. It was only when he found himself parked outside the little, suburban bungalow, hand poised to open the car door, that he questioned what he was doing, whether it was a good idea.

He hadn't seen the angel since the early-80s. So much could happen in 30, nearly 40 years. So much had happened to _him_ in that time. What could have happened to the angel? Crowley didn't even know where he'd gone, not really. He just assumed Heaven had taken him in, but maybe it had gone differently. What if he had left willingly? The angel had never come looking for him, and Crowley hadn't looked either. Would the angel even want to see him? Speak to him? What if Heaven had pulled something similar to what Hell did to him, brainwashed him back into a model employee? What if the angel opened the door, took one look at him, and smote him on the spot?

He threw the door open and stepped out. It didn't really matter. Everybody's world was Ending tomorrow, anyway. What was one less day for him?

He rang the doorbell. There was a long stretch of silence, and he nearly rang it again. But then the door opened, and there he was. The angel looked exactly the same as he had in the bookshop the day they parted ways. Same suit, same hair, same piercing blue eyes, same everything. Except…

_Oh no. Oh angel, I'm so sorry._

A swooping, golden line curled along the angel's neck, just at the edge of his collar, and more over the backs of his hands, glowing slightly in Crowley's supernatural sight. Celestial Bindings. Of course. Why wouldn't Heaven stoop to Hell's level? They'd clearly done it before. Waves of guilt crashed over him.

_It was my fault. They'd never have done it if you hadn't helped me, and you'd never have helped me if I hadn't pushed you._

"Er…Hi," Crowley said over the sound of his own darkening thoughts.

_If you were to smite me on the spot, I'd deserve it. But you can't now, can you?_

The angel stared at him blankly, and for a moment, he thought perhaps they'd done one better than simply Binding him - perhaps they'd wiped his memory again. But then something changed in the angel's eyes, an emotion Crowley couldn't place, possibly because it seemed to be several different emotions at once. He finally breathed out a faint, "H- hello…" and Crowley thought he sounded…relieved? Maybe even a little pleased?

_Don't you hate me? Why wouldn't you? You should._

"Sorry, I…I ah…It's…nph…It's uh, been a while, yeah?" he managed finally, realizing that every plan he'd had for an opening line began to fade the moment he saw the angel's face, and vanished completely once he realized what they'd done to him. After an awkward pause, he dug into his pocket and retrieved the cufflink, held it out to the angel on his open palm, "I um…I thought maybe it was time I returned this."

_Peace offering. Just take it and I'll go._

Slowly, silently, the angel looked down at it, looked back up and him, and nodded, still wearing that crowded, conflicted expression. After a moment he stepped back, an unspoken invitation to come inside.

_A trap? Maybe. Doesn't matter._

Crowley took him up on it, did his best to casually saunter in. Walking into the full presence of the angel's celestial wavelength helped quite a bit, and he felt himself relax even as his mind stayed alert. The angel took a quick, paranoid glance out the door and closed it behind him.

* * *

Aziraphale led the demon into his living room, floating in some kind of shock. The Serpent was _alive_. The Serpent was _here_. And oh, it felt _good_ to see him again. It felt frightening, and confusing, and gut-wrenching…and good. For a while there, just after…the discovery…he'd had a quite a difficult time not dwelling on what could have been, though he knew it wasn't good for him. He had to keep himself concerned with what _was_ , it was the only way to stay sane. Eventually, he'd successfully avoided thinking about any of it, at all, for decades. And so, he hadn't expected this possibility, let alone planned for it. He'd half-convinced himself the poor thing had been killed by Heaven's reinforcements, years ago. And even if not, he'd given up any hope of ever seeing him again.

But last night, after reading through the prophecies Anathema had given him, a nagging thought poked at him. A tiny hope whispered that perhaps…there might be a chance…

He couldn't be sure. It was likely wishful thinking on his part, reading into something that wasn't there. But he could swear at _least_ two of those prophecies directly referenced their plight, and he didn't know what that could possibly mean. And now here was the Serpent, appearing on his doorstep not twelve hours after Aziraphale read the prophecies that pointed, maybe, to their reunion. He was beginning to understand why Anathema had built her life around Agnes' work.

The Serpent looked good, infinitely better than he had when last they spoke. He was sober, for one thing, and Aziraphale couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him that way, at least not voluntarily. His clothes were sleek and fashionable, his sunglasses polished, his posture confident, his overall countenance just…healthier. His auburn hair hung at his shoulders, partially tied back, revealing the snake sigil near his ear. It was, Aziraphale realized as he took another glance, his only remaining marking. The demon had been Released.

 _Lucky_ , he thought, and then immediately chastised himself for it, trying not to imagine what the demon must have gone through to convince Hell to remove his Bonds.

Aziraphale sat on one end of the sofa, and the Serpent followed suit, against the opposite arm. Then Aziraphale immediately stood again, crossed the room, and poured himself an incredibly large drink. He turned and raised his eyebrows at the Serpent, not trusting himself to form words just yet.

"Ah…yeah. That's probably a good idea," the Serpent said, and Aziraphale grabbed another glass and a fuller bottle. He set them on the coffee table, downed half his glass in one go, and sat back down again.

It occurred to him then that the Serpent might be here to hurt him. After all, Aziraphale had vanished on the poor fellow, at a time when the demon truly needed him. He could be harboring a grudge. Or worse, maybe Hell had Released him because he was back in their full employ. He could be here on Hell's behalf, acting as a true adversary at last. But somehow, neither seemed likely. He certainly didn't sense any animosity from the demon. Quite the opposite, there was a sense of calm about him, calmer than Aziraphale might have expected.

The Serpent poured himself a drink, sat back, and held the cufflink out to him again.

"Take it, really," he said, "I don't need it anymore. It already got me here."

He took it, then processed the last thing the demon had said.

"Sorry, what?"

* * *

The angel was quiet, hesitant, clearly unsure how to react to his being here. But he also wasn't yelling or glowing or tossing blessings around, so Crowley felt confident that he might at least be able to start a conversation.5

"I ah…I figured out how to…you know what, long story, but the point is, it helped me find you. Triangulate, as it were. You know, you must have had that thing forever, it's just as resonant as it ever was."

"Oh…yes," the angel looked down at it as if he just remembered he'd taken it, "I have. About a thousand years, I think. …Give or take a century or so."

He gave him a little half-smile Crowley found utterly endearing, and he took another drink before he could get distracted by it. The angel slipped the cufflink into his coat pocket, and his sleeve shifted a bit. As Crowley lowered his glass, his eyes lingered on the Binding on the angel's hand. He must have made a face without knowing it, because the angel noticed him staring, even with his glasses on.

"Ah," the angel said, inspecting the mark self-consciously, "That. Yes. …I ah…it…"

Crowley raised a hand, "It's all right. You don't have to-"

"No," the angel said quickly, "I want to. I…haven't really had an opportunity to…"

"Yeah. I get it."

_It's not exactly the sort of thing you can discuss with humans, is it?_

"It was difficult to adjust to, at first. The first year, especially, was quite a struggle. I've still got my senses, can still sustain my corporation on my power alone, but I can't…well, there's a lot I can't do anymore. I can't even do my job, which was the point, really. They're keeping me here until the War begins, Gabriel called it a 'time-out'." The angel made a little sneer when he said this, then brought his face back to neutral, and even tried to smile a bit, "But it's been such a long time now, I've become rather used to it, actually. Some days I can almost forget it's there, and then I'll try some small, routine miracle and get reminded in a hurry. Still it's…it's not so bad, really," the angel almost sounded as if he believed that, "Anyway, not nearly as severe as…well…"

Crowley nodded and took a long drink. He was certain nothing could possibly be as severe as what they'd done to him; they'd taken pains to ensure that. But he couldn't think about that right now.6

"…When did they nab you?" he said instead.

"Just after you left, actually. And when I say just, I mean I'm quite sure they were waiting for you to leave. They let you go, you know."

He nodded again, "I suspected as much. Considering the condition I was in, they likely didn't see me as much of a threat on my own. Probably could have followed me home if they wanted to. Both times."

The silence they fell into was heavy, oppressive. Ponderous with things unsaid. The angel cleared his throat.

"…I don't blame you, you know. For this," he lifted his hand, dropped it back into his lap. "I suspect Gabriel had been looking for an excuse to do it for years. Those circumstances were as good as any."

_You'd have every right to. You're a better angel than the rest of them put together, aren't you?_

"Still," Crowley said, low and quiet, "…it's not fair."

"No," the angel whispered, regretful and a little pinched, "It isn't."

They each finished their glasses, and Crowley let the angel take the bottle. Discreetly, he refilled his own glass, downed it, and filled it again, without lifting a finger. He felt immediately guilty for it.

_It should be you able to do that, and me looking on in envy. It doesn't really feel right the other way around._

The angel looked up at him suddenly, "Did you say _both_ times?"

"Oh uh, yeah. Didn't know if you knew."

"You did go back to the shop, then?"

"Yeah. They were waiting for me."

"I thought they might. Really, I was afraid they'd…" he cleared his throat again and didn't finish the thought. Crowley understood anyway, and grimaced a bit. The angel looked at him with sad, pleading eyes, "I wanted to warn you against it somehow, but I had eyes on me every moment I was up there. They were busy fast-tracking my 'reassignment'. I was here before the week was out. I…I'd hoped, if you had survived, you could come to forgive me. But…I would understand if you couldn't."

Crowley couldn't help but laugh, bewildered and disbelieving.

"You know, I'm willing to bet you haven't done a single thing that even approached a need for forgiveness in your entire life."

He smiled at the angel, who didn't smile back, those same eyes imploring him. Crowley sighed.

"…I do forgive you, angel. Whatever that's worth, coming from me."

The angel relaxed, gave him a small, thankful smile.

"But I'm serious," Crowley said, "There's nothing to forgive. Honestly. I know you wouldn't have let them try to smite me."

The angel's eyes widened, "They _did_ attack you, then. Were you injured?"

Crowley waved him away, "Eeh. Nothing a decade's healing couldn't fix."

"Well, that's…good lord, did you say a _decade's_ healing? Whatever happened?"

Crowley told him about coming back to the shop, the other angel, the barely evaded smiting. The angel listened, rapt and steadily nursing his drink, and Crowley found himself continuing the story. He told him about his convalescence, told him, in a very limited, cagey way, about Lucifer's bargain and his involuntary change of heart. He told him about Tadfield Manor. He told him about his assignment, about coming back to himself over time, reassured him that he held neither love nor loyalty for Hell anymore. He told him as little as possible about Warlock himself, didn't even mention his name.7

"He's uh…why I'm here, actually. I ah…I'm sure you've noticed, things are afoot."

"Indeed, I'd noticed a few things amiss," the angel said wryly, emptying his glass and reaching for the bottle again.

"I'm…in a lot of trouble, actually," Crowley confessed, swallowing hard, "As I'm sure you've sussed out, Armageddon's tomorrow, and I sort-of, erm…lost the Antichrist?"

"Hmm," the angel nodded, but he didn't look surprised.

"I ah- I mean, as I said, I thought I was raising him, but-"

"It was the wrong boy," the angel said matter-of-factly, and Crowley practically jumped.

"How could you possibly know that?!"

The angel watched him steadily for a long moment. "Might I ask," he said carefully, "What you planned to do, were you to find the real one?"

"I'm…I don't have any idea, actually," he said, and he was telling the truth, "I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose I thought I might be able to stop him, but…I mean, I don't want a War, I don't want the world to End. I care about that boy, I want him to have a future…but…" he shook his head, "I don't know. I don't think I'd do anything. Not much I could do, anyway. I figured you might know something, and might not want the War to happen either, and maybe you'd be willing to help me try. Why do you ask?"

The angel heaved a relieved sigh, "Because he lives next-door. The Antichrist, I mean. I've known his mother for twenty years, I daresay she's probably the best friend I have. I'm the boy's godfather, for goodness sake. I've suspected him for quite some time, but I didn't have confirmation until the Hellhound."

Crowley stared at him, too shocked to even stammer. The angel gave him an anxious look.

"He's a good boy, really. It's quite a shame. I was hoping I could influence him toward Good myself, but I think that's all up to him, now. Nothing to be done but wait and see."

"Nothing to- _what do you mean he lives next-door???_ "

"He turned eleven on Tuesday, and the Hellhound arrived that morning. I watched him claim it myself. The transformation was…interesting."

The angel explained the events of the past few days, while Crowley felt his world implode and re-form several times. He forgot all about his drink for a while.

"Well- but- ngk-…Okay. So…what, we're supposed to just sit back and watch the world End?"

"…That's the plan, honestly," the angel said with an apologetic shrug, "Anathema will phone if something urgent comes up. Aside from that, it's largely out of our hands. Really, my plan was to use the last hours I had to get some reading done, enjoy a nice meal."

Crowley gave a short, helpless, slightly-hysterical laugh, "All right, so you've been keeping tabs on the Antichrist, _who lives next door,_ this whole time. You're working with _the witch down the lane_ to try and stop him using a _three hundred year old_ _book_ , but as far as you can tell, there's nothing we can actually _do_ about stopping him, and we just have to cross our fingers and hope we stumble into the solution. Have I got that right?" he laughed again, "Any other life-altering bombs you want to drop on me before I drink myself into oblivion?"

The angel looked a little sick. Crowley stopped smiling. When he'd asked that last question, the angel turned bright red, and now seemed keen to look anywhere but at him.

"Er…about that…"

Crowley's stomach dropped, "…Seriously?" It was supposed to be rhetorical. It was supposed to be an invitation for the two of them to drink the night away.

_Oh for fuck's sake, now what?_

The angel sighed, "It's a _bit_ of a change of subject, but…I discovered something. Quite a while ago. You remember the notes I showed you, the last time we met?"

Crowley nodded, "The ones that prove we used to be friends? Can't really forget something like that. Why d'you think I'm here?"

The angel winced when he said the word 'friends', and Crowley's uneasiness began to morph into full-blown trepidation.

"…I found another one," the angel looked as though he were fighting himself against every word he spoke, "And it… I thought perhaps I'd never get the chance to show you, considering…and now you're here, I'm not entirely sure it's wise, but…well, there's no time like the present, is there? Not much time left in-general, really. It's just that it's…well, I should stop dithering, and just show you."

Crowley watched with a growing dread as the angel crossed to the bureau in the corner, pressed open a spring-loaded drawer hidden in the side, picked up a full sheet of paper, and brought it back. He sat down, but he didn't hand it over.

"To be honest, I'm not particularly _keen_ on showing you. Even now, I'm still not quite sure what to _do_ with the information, and I really don't know how you might take it, but…whatever my misgivings, you deserve to know."

The angel looked at the paper for a long moment, winced again, and handed it over reluctantly. Crowley took it and, regardless of how much the angel's disclaimers had discouraged him from doing so, began to read.

* * *

14 February, 1946

##########,

You know I'm no good at this sort of thing, but for whatever reason, you insist that all you want this year is some flowery words on paper, so I'll do my best to oblige. Anything for you, angel.

I must have scrapped a dozen drafts of this thing by now. I don't know what to say, or how to say it. What is there to say about us that our history doesn't say for me? Language is so finite, so inadequate to describe any bit of what you mean to me. I'm sure you're after some fond reminiscence, a recounting of your finest qualities, maybe a sonnet, or a psalm? But you know my talents lie elsewhere. 

I can't give you poetry, angel, only the truth. And the truth is, you are the most precious creature in all the Cosmos, and it is an utter travesty that you find yourself tied to me in any way. I do not, can not, will not ever deserve you. I don't know how to write this letter because there are no words to properly express the beautiful, exquisite injustice that is our life together. (There is no better example of this than your insistence upon blissfully foregoing all reason and stubbornly loving me anyway, you foolish, marvelous bastard.)

I could never properly express my gratitude for the love you see fit to waste on me every moment of every day, but I swear by the stars, I will spend the rest of eternity trying. I love you so much, my beloved angel. I will always, always love you. I have loved you for thousands of years, and I will love you long after the End, no matter when it comes, no matter what becomes of me. Were I to be dragged screaming from your arms, nothing short of utter obliteration could keep me from returning to you.

Angel, you are the only thing in this world, in any world, that truly matters. I can't imagine a life without you by my side - you make it worth living. 

Yours Eternally,

Anthony J. Crowley

p.s. Thus concludes the most disgustingly sugary, mortifyingly romantic thing I've ever put to paper. Congratulations on successfully pouting your way into my committing the most egregious case of Conduct Wholly Unbecoming A Demon I've ever managed, and that includes the boarding house incident. I hope you're satisfied, angel, because I swear I will never put myself through anything remotely resembling this utter humiliation ever again!!

* * *

Crowley stared at the letter. Read over the signature again and again, and each time he did, it was still his own. He found he couldn't quite catch his breath. His eyes brimmed with traitorous, unbidden tears threatening to fall with each passing second.

"…What…" he could barely form words, "…what… _is_ …this?"

"As far as I can tell," the angel's voice was stilted and awkward, "it's a love letter. A valentine, safe to say, given the date. I found it in that bureau drawer, only a few days after they sent me here. Given the facts, I…don't know that 'friends' is quite the right word for our…prior relationship."

Crowley made a noise that somewhat resembled a sniffle, a gasp, a laugh and a sob all at once, while not quite achieving any of them. He set the letter down on the table between them, afraid he'd succumb to his overwhelming urge to tear the thing to shreds. Instead he tore his glasses off, covered his face with his hands and tried to just. Think. Just think.

A love letter? _A love letter?_ He'd come to terms with knowing the angel, even being friends with him, improbable as it seemed. But this? The letter didn't even _sound_ like him (though the p.s. certainly did). Could he ever have lived such a life? Could he ever have been the person who wrote that letter?

But of course, he could have. It was impossible to know who he'd been before they'd broken him. Maybe he'd been a hopeless romantic the whole time and he just…couldn't remember.

But no, it was ridiculous. It was insane. Even _if_ , given their long tenure on Earth in close proximity, such a thing _could_ develop between them, they couldn't _possibly_ have…Their respective sides would _never_ …

"…They would have tried to stop it," he half-whispered in horrified understanding, unaware he was even speaking aloud.

"…All evidence points to their having stopped it rather effectively, I'd say," the angel said, gentle and sad.

Crowley glared at him, "How are you so _calm_ about this?"

The angel shrugged, "I've had nearly forty years to process."

"Well I haven't!" Crowley grabbed the bottle on the table and found it empty. He stalked over to the sideboard, grabbed another, random bottle, and poured himself a large drink. He downed it in a go, and poured another. Once he'd repeated this process about five times, he stalked back over to the sofa, bottle in hand,8 no glass necessary, and plopped back down. He picked the letter back up.

_…anything for you, angel…you are the most precious thing in all the cosmos…I have loved you for thousands of years…you are the only thing in any world that truly matters…I can't imagine a life without you by my side…yours eternally…_

He buried his face in his hands again, less shock, more sadness, no longer able to hold back the tears. Tears of sorrow, and grief, and _anger_. An anger that burned through his chest, stabbed into the void in his soul, a void that, for the first time in nearly a century, finally made sense to him. This one letter changed everything he thought he knew about himself, about the things he thought was capable of, the things he'd lived before.

The demon Crowley had known real love, and had been loved back.

He'd been _in_ love, even. He'd been so thoroughly in love that he'd written this sappy, stupid, overwrought nonsense, just to please 'his angel'. He'd been in love for, if his own words were to be believed, _thousands_ of years. _And they took it away from him_. Tore it from his life like pages from a book, and burned it to ashes. He'd been in love with this odd, fascinating, _beautiful_ creature…and now he wasn't even allowed his name. It was all he could do not to cry aloud.

He took a few deep breaths, tried to get hold of himself. He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder and jumped slightly. The angel was closer beside him, and he hadn't even noticed him move. He looked up, and the angel pulled his hand away. Crowley instantly missed it, had to stop himself from reaching for it. He looked between the angel and the letter, helpless, lost.

"…1946," he said, distantly, "That's…that's when I found the cufflink…that's…"

"Yes," the angel said, that same soft, gentle tone, comforting and painful all at once, "I believe that's the year…it happened."

Crowley spat out another laugh-sob and ran a hand over his face. He put the letter back down, sat back, stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time, lost inside his own head.

"…The _boarding house_ …" he muttered eventually, "I _remember_ that…"

"I don't," the angel said, with a slight tinge of regret, "What was it?"

"…I ah…heh. So, I was assigned to undermine this boarding house, right? This must have been, what, 1809? 1810? Tiny little private institution, supposed to be an alternative to the workhouses, do good for the poor and all that. I was supposed to tempt the founder into embezzling the charity box and running off with the headmistress. But you know how humans are. He got carried away, of course, decided that the best way to cover his tracks was to burn the damn thing down in the middle of the night. I mean I was only trying to do my job, I hadn't set out to _hurt_ anybody, and then here comes this wanker ready to murder an entire building full of children! Humans. Fucking animals."

He took a long swig from the bottle at his side. He didn't look at the angel.

"Anyway, I knew I'd be in for it Downstairs if they found out I miracled the kids to safety, but I didn't want to put it out either. I mean, get a boarding house burnt down? That's definitely a plus on my record. So, I got them out by hand, a few at a time. Seventeen children, two guardians, and a minister. A _minister_ , if you can believe it." He breathed half a laugh, before his voice gained a bit of pride, "I didn't lose a single one."

The angel was quiet, and Crowley finally looked over at him. The angel had tears in his eyes.

"Hm," he said, with a slight nod, "I ah…I think I'm beginning to understand what I might have seen in you."

He smiled a watery smile. Crowley gave him a smirk back.

"Well, be fair, I'm a bit of a looker, as well."

It was such a small joke. It wasn't even a _good_ joke. But the two of them were so very tired, so very heart-weary, so close to the ends of their respective ropes. Which is why, when the angel reacted with a short, vaguely unhinged laugh, Crowley responded with one of his own, then they each laughed at the sound and similar qualities of the other's laughter, and within moments, the two were in utter stitches. Every few seconds the laughter would die down, and then one would look at the other and begin giggling, setting the other one off again. It got to where they were actually clutching at their sides, leaning on each-other for support.

They suddenly found themselves very close together, faces inches apart. Their laughter died, and they held each-other's eyes for a long, tense moment. The angel's eyes were an endless blue sky.

Crowley practically leaped to his feet, forcing down an urge to do something he knew he would instantly regret.

"Welp, ah…" he paced a moment, took another swig from the bottle, and held it out to the angel, "Time to get pissed and wait for the witch to phone, or for the End of the World, whichever comes first, yeah?"

The angel, who had watched him move with a sort-of dazed, faraway stare, blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. He took the bottle.

"Ah…quite," he said, and took a very long drink. "So, er," he said when he finished, "What have you been up to the past 6000 years?"

* * *

5\. He didn't know whether the angel _could_ toss blessings around anymore, but he wasn't eager to find out. [Back]

6\. If he could help it, he'd prefer not to think about it ever again, in fact. [Back]

7\. It wasn't that he didn't trust the angel, but at this point, protecting the boy was a higher priority to him than just about anything else. [Back]

8\. and still just as full as it had been when he picked it up [Back]

* * *

#### Several Hours Later

It was long after dark, approaching midnight. Anathema hadn't contacted them. They'd been drinking all night. The demon kept refilling the bottle, and Aziraphale was keeping up fine - the Bindings restrained his miracle work, but they hadn't been enough to weaken him the way the demon's had. He was also having a genuinely lovely time.

They talked about everything. They talked about nothing. They talked about themselves, asked questions about each-other, swapped anecdotes, shared the parts of their individual histories they each still retained. They argued, in a surprisingly good-natured way, about philosophy, and humanity, and life on Earth in-general. Tried to one-up each-other with the litany of world-famous humans they'd each known. It was disarmingly comfortable, these supposed enemies drunkenly chatting away, as if they'd been doing it for years.

And of course, they had.9

Currently, Aziraphale was sitting on the floor, leaned up against the side of the sofa, utterly shitfaced. The Serpent was in a similar state, sprawled out on his belly, half-hung off the edge of the sofa, grinning like a madman as Aziraphale regaled him with tales of his wild days in the late-1800s. The bits he could still remember, anyway.

"We all had nickn-, nicl- nikni- pretend names, you know," although he was sitting down, he swayed slightly, unsure who'd decided to set the room afloat, "We weren't _meant_ to know each-other's real names, though of course we all did."

"I'm still not over this," the demon said, and the smile he was giving him was one of indulgent fondness, "An _angel_ , slumming it in a Victorian gay bar with Oscar-bloody-Wilde."

"I was not _slumming_ ," Aziraphale said, feigning offense, "I'll have you know it was the city's pshosh- the polshest- it was populated with a load of rich buggers."

"Rich buggerers," the demon giggled, and Aziraphale swatted at him.

"You're one to talk! 'DaVinci's muse', indeed!"

The demon waggled his eyebrows at him, "Never said _I_ was the one doing the buggery, did I?"

"Oh hush! You're incorrigible!" He turned his head and smiled at the demon, trying and failing not to notice how close their faces were when he did.

The demon's smile deepened, became almost awestruck.

"You are a series of baffling contradictions, angel," he said, "'S no wonder I love you."

The Serpent's eyes widened in horror the moment the words left his mouth. Their faces each morphed from happy, drunken congeniality to conflicted, vulnerable uncertainty. It was clear he hadn't intended to say it, but it was _true_. Aziraphale could _feel_ it, to the depths of him, no matter how much he'd tried to dismiss it all day, even as he felt it grow. Even as he felt his wounded soul reach out to the call of the demon's own.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The Serpent's words hung over the two of them, thickened the air between them. Their expressions each took on a new aspect, a longing, desperate need. Aziraphale knew he should put some distance between them, but he couldn't move, couldn't look away. There was so much happening behind those beautiful, golden eyes.

It wasn't entirely clear which of them kissed first. It might have been truly simultaneous. After a few moments, didn't matter - they were lost in each-other either way.

The Serpent scrambled off the sofa, somehow managing to not break contact, hands clutching either side of Aziraphale's head as he climbed into his lap, straddled him. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, his entire body alive in a way it hadn't been in years.

 _We can't do this,_ he thought, even as the kiss deepened, desperate and passionate. _We shouldn't,_ he tried to convince himself, as his hands slid underneath the demon's shirt and splayed onto his back. The two groaned at the skin-to-skin contact, touch-starved and lonely for so long. _We mustn't,_ his mind insisted as he pulled the demon ever closer. But try as he might, he couldn't think of a single reason they should stop.

What were they going to do, extinct them? Armageddon was on their doorstep. Their respective sides were currently preparing for a War neither he nor the Serpent had any intention of fighting. And even if they managed to stop Adam, both sides would be out for blood when they learned who'd stopped the War. Either they'd both be executed for treason, or they'd be forced into a battle they'd each lose on purpose, rather than fight on behalf of those who had betrayed each of them too many times to count.

Seriously, _fuck_ Heaven and Hell. They were on their own side now.

* * *

Crowley couldn't believe he was doing this, believed even less that the _angel_ was, but he wasn't about to question it. The angel's hands were warm and soft, his mouth doubly so, and Crowley melted into his arms, burning with passion, alive in ways he hadn't been in years.

Beneath him, he felt the angel make a significant Effort and he grinned, pressed against him and reveled in the groan the movement elicited. He did it again. He broke the kiss long enough to press his lips to the angel's neck.

"…Bedroom!" the angel gasped, and Crowley laughed.

"Don't you know patience is a virtue, angel?" he whispered teasingly into his ear.

"Now," the angel _growled_ , as he threaded his fingers through Crowley's hair and _pulled_. Crowley gasped - if he did that a couple more times, they weren't making it to the bedroom.

"You're a proper hedonist, aren't you?"

He stood and helped the angel to his feet. The angel swayed significantly on his way up and he had to help steady him. That gave him pause. It occurred to him that they were both incredibly, unbelievably drunk at the moment. They were both in particularly vulnerable states of mind to begin with. They were scared and desperate and lonely and _drunk_. What if this was a very bad idea?

The angel was gazing at him with adoration, and with _unbridled lust_ , and Crowley wanted nothing more than to grab hold of him and never let go. But he would never forgive himself if what they were about to do wasn't actually what the angel wanted. He caught the angel's eye.

"I think maybe we should sober up a bit."

The angel frowned at him, but then acquiesced, "All right then," he said, in a near-grumble, "Probably wise."

Crowley sobered them both to a comfortable, mild buzz.10 The angel's gaze returned, and though it was significantly clearer, it was otherwise completely unchanged. Still, Crowley couldn't assume. He cupped a gentle hand to the angel's cheek and the angel closed his eyes and leaned in.

"You're absolutely sure?" Crowley asked, hoping he didn't look as desperate for a yes as he felt, "You want this?"

The angel nodded violently, looking as though he might actually, spontaneously discorporate if Crowley didn't get back to kissing him soon. He mirrored Crowley's hand, stroked his shaking fingertips along Crowley's cheek, "I've never wanted anything as badly as I want you, right now."

"Good," Crowley said, and claimed his mouth again without another thought.

The angel guided him down the hallway, and though they stopped for a taste of each other's lips multiple times, they eventually made it to the bedroom. The angel led him to the pristine bed, clearly never touched, though frequently dusted. Crowley pulled the angel onto the hideous tartan bedspread. He didn't care about the decor - the bed wasn't what he planned on looking at, anyway. To that end, he started in on the task of removing the angel's ridiculously numerous layers of clothing.

"Careful," the angel said as he pulled a little roughly on a button, "I've kept that waistcoat in perfect condition for two-hundred years!"

Crowley rolled his eyes, and snapped his fingers. His own clothes vanished, while the angel's were now neatly folded on a nearby chair. The angel smiled at him, impressed and satisfied.

"Thank you," he said. They looked each-other over.

The angel was all soft curves where he was sharp edges. He ran a hand along the angel's side, and the angel blushed, suddenly self-conscious.

"Mmph," the angel said, "I know I've let myself go a bit-"

Crowley took his chin, kissed him thoroughly, then caught his eye.

"Don't. You're beautiful," he said, and he meant it, "You're perfect."

The angel gave him another grateful smile, which shifted into more of a smirk.

"No need to lay it on thick. But thank you, all the same."

They explored each other, gasps and hums and kisses and gentle touch, growing into driven, demanding passion. Years of lonely isolation glutted itself on the feel of skin against skin, arms around waists, mouths upon mouths.

Then Crowley was atop the angel, moving against him, urgent and needful, yet somehow delicate, precariously fragile. The angel moaned, a helpless, wordless confession, all passion and sorrow at once, and Crowley answered in-kind, gasping and murmuring.

"Please," the sound whispered out of him, more breath than word, "Please, please, please." He didn't even know what he meant, not really.

He clutched at the angel's shoulders, the angel's nails dug into his back. And on the astral plane, where such distinctions as physicality, as matter, were wholly absent, their wings engulfed each other, melded together. The angel's Bindings ran deep, fought against him, but Crowley's will was strong, his need for connection stronger still. He eased himself beyond them, nestled into the angel's core, into warmth, safety, shelter. It was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Their shared climax reverberated far beyond mere material reality, and for the briefest moment, a fraction of a fraction of a nanosecond, their very souls merged, joined into one form. They truly Knew each other then, histories laid bare, time and space meaningless in their endless soulscape. The missing parts of their shared past met at the edges and even with all that remained lost, for one tiny sliver of a moment, each was closer to Whole than they had been in 80 years.

Then it was over, nearly-found memories lost to them once more, and they lay panting against each other in the harsh reality of Now.

The angel gasped, a single, hitching sob. It was a ragged, shattered sound, and Crowley knew he'd felt it, too. And although he could no longer reach the knowledge he'd had just within his grasp, he was drowning in the sheer enormity of the loss, awash in sorrow bordering on despair, tempered only by the sure, solid weight of the angel's body against his own. It was too much.

Crowley broke.

* * *

As Aziraphale felt their souls slip reluctantly apart, the Serpent buried his face into his shoulder and cried. He sobbed loud, uncontrolled, wailed in mournful agony. Aziraphale wasn't surprised - he rather felt like crying himself. He held the demon close, murmuring soothing reassurances into his ear.

"Shhh, I know. I know, it's all right, shhh, it's going to be all right…"

He couldn't know that. It very probably wouldn't be all right, all things considered. He didn't even know what was happening, not really. Here they were at the End of the World, no closer to a solution, and now this new development, now the re-kindling of a love so forbidden it had already been banished once. He grieved for everything he and the Serpent had lost, everything that had been stolen from them. Even though he still remembered nothing, he had a better sense of the scale of the loss now, and it was so incredibly vast it was difficult for even his angelic mind to comprehend. But despite the heartache, despite the uncertainty and fear, he felt such an overwhelming _love_ for the being in his arms. This being he barely knew. This being he'd known for millennia.

Aziraphale _was_ crying, he realized, clutching the Serpent as though he feared he might vanish if he let go. How long had he been doing that? The demon was saying something, but it was difficult to understand through his sobs. When Aziraphale made out the words, his already broken heart cracked a bit further.

"Don't leave me, please, please don't leave me, please, don't leave me alone," the Serpent whimpered, and Aziraphale wondered if he even knew he was speaking, "Don't leave me alone, I don't want to be alone, please don't leave me…"

"I'm here," Aziraphale whispered, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, "I'm right here, you're not alone, I'm here, I've got you, I won't let you go, I promise, I'm not going anywhere…"

Soothing the demon helped soothe himself, and soon they lay together quietly, awash in an overwhelming array of emotion and thought.

The Serpent pulled away suddenly, sat up, made to get up. He wouldn't look at Aziraphale.

"Sorry," he said, humiliation clear in his voice, "I'm…fuck, I'm so sorry, I- I'll go. I should go-"

"No, don't," Aziraphale grabbed his arm before he had a chance to stand, "Please, I need…I've been so terribly alone…please…"

The demon looked back at him, his expression shifting from fearful shame to grateful relief. He lay back down and pulled Aziraphale's head to his chest. Aziraphale sighed, feeling something approximating true safety for the first time in so long, he'd nearly forgotten the feeling altogether. It was gentle, and sweet, and… _terrifying_. What was he _doing_ here, cradled lovingly in the arms of a _demon?_ How could he be so calm when the world, here in its final throes, had already been turned so utterly on its head? He had no answers, only the knowledge that lying here like this was closest to peace his soul had known in nearly a century, and if it meant he could continue feeling this way for any length of time, he would end the world himself.

The Serpent was shaking, shivering against him and pulling ever closer, as though they were huddling for warmth.

"…I'm scared, angel," the demon's voice was thin and fragile,"…I'm so scared."

Aziraphale hummed in sympathy, "So am I. And yet…"

But there was too much to say. He didn't know how to sort any of it out. It was too huge to contemplate, it was all going too fast. But there was no time to slow anything down; there was no time at all, anymore.

"Yeah."

The way he said it told Aziraphale he understood. The Serpent kissed his forehead, and he snuggled deeper into his chest. It didn't need to be sorted out just now. This moment, this fleeting solace, was enough.

"…Big day tomorrow, I guess," the Serpent said at length, uncertain, "We should probably get some rest."

"I ah…don't sleep, really," Aziraphale gave a shrug of apology. The demon shrugged back.

"…Me either. Not anymore. But…I just want to stay here…like this. If it's all right."

"Yes. I'd like that very much."

He closed his eyes, finding shelter in the unsteady rhythm of the Serpent's breath, the whisper-soft touch of gentle fingers tracing a silent plea along the back of his neck.

* * *

4961\. Etarnel kyndred, light an darke, Rivenne an Bounde by mynders of mens souls. The Lovers ken notte thyre harts True mate, yet the End sharl see loft Souls enjoyned, ere brokenne harts mende.

* * *

* * *

9\. Though so far, they'd been prudent enough to avoid that particular topic even, or perhaps especially, drunk as they were. [Back]

10\. Well, he sobered the angel up, anyway. He left himself a bit of wiggle room, worried he might lose his nerve entirely if he was clearheaded enough. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prophecy that opens this chapter is lifted directly from the book. The rest are mine.
> 
> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Casual Sex, Denial, Depression, Forced Amnesia, forced semi-mortality, major angst, non-explicit sex scene


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### The Ethereal Plane, 6 Hours Til the End of the World

Beelzebub shoved past the sparkly, beaded curtain, sparing only a cursory glance and sneer at the pastel-colored nightmare beyond. Then their face regained the expression it had held during the entire ride down the lift - unrestrained glee. They practically skipped into the room.

"My Lord!" they nearly shouted.

Lucifer turned to face them, looking somewhat startled at their unfamiliar energy. Beelzebub didn't blame Him - they hadn't been this excited in millennia, possibly since before the Fall. Lucifer stood in front of a half-finished painting: a garishly pink unicorn prancing against a purple and green gradient background. 1

"Beez," Lucifer said, cheerfully and a bit warily, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Beelzebub presented Him with a Report, freshly retrieved from the Department of Unauthorized Curses, Spells, Hexes, and Other Evil Doings.2 It was a single page, with a sizzling red banner across the top. The banner read, "UNAUTHORIZED ACTIVITY FLAGGED FOR IMMEDIATE REVIEW: DEMON CROWLEY".

"I've been having hiz account monitored ever since he went back up. Lookz like he'z been…buzy."

Lucifer snatched the paper from Beelzebub's hand and scrutinized it. His expression went from congenial, to blank, to dangerously dark. Around them, the room began to darken, colors draining, sparkles turning to embers. By the time He finished reading, the two stood in a stereotypical chamber of Hell, charred walls, sulfur pits, and all. The unicorn was now a great black spider, enormous and terrible, actively draining a figure so encased in web that their only identifying feature was their deep, red hair.

He glared at Beelzebub, who continued to grin maniacally at Him.

"… _Fine_ ," He said, with such malice that Beelzebub lost a bit of their good humor, "You _win_ , I suppose."

They shrugged, and opened their mouth to speak. Lucifer raised a warning hand.

"If you say 'I told you so' I will wear your head as a hat, and you'll need your head if you're to lead a battalion, so just…shut up."

He stalked across the room, arms folded, scowling into the blank rock face. Beelzebub tried to swallow a bit of their enthusiasm.

"I thought…My Lord…it might be bezt to send someone up to deal with him directly, rather than launch any sort of formal proceedingz. Seeing az we're so close to finalizing battle preparationz."

"…Send Hastur and Ligur. They've been gagging for a chance to take him out for centuries, they deserve a treat."

"Ah…they're set to accompany your Son to Megiddo, My Lord…They leave within the hour…"

"Send someone else to Megiddo. This one's a Personal priority, and they're your most efficient Dukes. Get it done."

"Yes, My Lord," Beelzebub bowed low, and despite themselves, their ecstatic grin returned.

 _Finally_ , they thought as they headed for the lift, _Some good newz. And juzt in time for the War._

* * *

1\. Beelzebub didn't even want to know what the general energy in the room was supposed to mean, and they were too excited to care. [Back]

2\. Really, Hell went a bit _too far_ out of their way to avoid the word "miracle". [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, 5 Hours, 34 Minutes Til the End of the World

Crowley opened his eyes slowly, calmly. He hadn't slept, not really. But for several hours, he dozed. He hovered at the edge of sleep, a place where dreaming might still catch him up in its terrible arms, clutch at him with sharp hooks until he managed to tear himself away. But it hadn't. At least, not in the way he'd grown accustomed over the last century. Crowley had dreamed of little things, _pleasant_ little things, things that didn't actually seem like dreams at all. The touch of a hand, the hint of a smile, warm sun glinting on a teacup. They'd been impressions more than images, each feeling brief and abstract. But they'd all had one thing in common.

He felt the weight of the angel lying beside him, arm slung over his waist, evidently sleeping despite his claim the night before. Crowley was still clutching the creature to him, platinum curls rested against his shoulder, soft cheek nestled in his chest. He held him in both arms, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be doing, tenderly cradling a being that should, by all rights, be his natural enemy.

It felt unfamiliar.

It felt comforting.

It felt foreign.

It felt _right_.

He stroked the back of the angel's head, wove his fingers through those soft curls, took in a deep breath of the scent of him. He smelled of sunshine and papyrus and sandalwood and sweet biscuits, and it was unfamiliar and comforting and foreign and _right_. He breathed deeply a few more times, held his breath, choked back tears at the realization that the void inside him was nearly indistinct. His awareness of it had been so dim when woke that he hadn't even registered its presence until this moment. For the first time in nearly a century, he felt more than okay. More than merely hanging on, making the best of bad. He felt _good._ He felt the soothing weight of a full heart.

_All this time, all I was missing was you. It was always you._

He planted a kiss into his hair, and another. The angel stirred, and for a moment, Crowley half-expected him to pull away, jump to his feet, accuse him of seducing him, tempting him into ruin. But instead, the angel pressed his lips to Crowley's chest, traced his fingertips along his back ( _unfamiliar, comforting, foreign, right_ ). He lifted his head, looked over his face, his eyes a mirror of the contradictions that rolled over Crowley in waves.

They didn't speak, words a mere complication, a useless human trifle. They simply kissed, slowly, deeply, as though they'd only paused for breath, the night's rest only a brief interruption to the exquisite madness that now possessed them.

They made love again. There was no other possible term for it. The physical reality of the act was nearly inconsequential - the important bit was entirely intangible. Once again, their astral forms melded into one, found shelter in the joining of their broken souls, the pieces fitting together, nearly able to grasp at all they'd lost. It was less jarring this time, less disturbing, more comforting, more true solace. If they had nothing else, at least they had this, right now. At least they had the briefest moment of connection with the shared past lost to them. Unfamiliar. Comforting. Foreign. Right.

When they metaphysically untangled from each other, Crowley lifted his head to look at the angel, meet his piercing blue eyes, clouded over in satisfaction and apprehension in equal measure. He opened his mouth to speak...and then everything changed.

In the following hours, Crowley would replay the events in his mind a thousand times, trying to figure out where he went wrong, what he could have done differently. But the truth was, he was simply caught off-guard. He wasn't paying enough attention to the world around him, too lost in the moment to notice the approaching danger.

The angel's eyes landed on his own for only a moment before moving beyond him and widening into terror. Crowley had only a moment's confusion before he was torn from the angel's grasp, grimy fingers pulling at his arms. He found himself tossed against the far wall as though he weighed nothing at all, landing with an unpleasant thud. He looked up to see his attackers already launching in on their target. Hastur and Ligur flanked the frightened angel, who'd barely managed to sit up before it was too late.

Crowley was helpless to stop it - there wasn't any time. Before he even had a chance to process what he was seeing, they had set upon the poor creature. It took mere moments. With preternatural speed, demonic fangs and razor claws, they tore the angel apart before his eyes. One moment the angel had been in his arms, and then in a mere instant, angel was gone, leaving behind only a mangled approximation of a human-shaped corporation. He hadn't even had time to scream.

Crowley's mind went…blank.

Crowley was no stranger to rage. He'd raged at Heaven, at Hell, at himself, at the foolish, violent, cruelty of humanity. But the rage he was most used to was focused and controlled. It had an integral clarity, a sharp, distinct beginning and end. But the rage that overcame Crowley when he saw what the Dukes of Hell had done was nothing so clean or neat. This rage was blind, feral, all-consuming. There was no room for thought. There was no careful planning, no considering his options, no revenge served cold. As he watched the angel ( _his angel_ ) discorporate, he became rage itself, and had very little control over anything that happened next.

* * *

When the Dukes entered the room, they didn't have any idea what they would find on the other side of the door. But whatever they might have been expecting, a naked Crowley lounging in bed with an equally naked angel was _not it_. After shaking off their initial shock and disgust, they acted without hesitation. They would deal with Crowley in a moment, but first the angel had to go. It was too easy, unsatisfying really. Even if it hadn't been Bound, it wouldn't have been any trouble. The creature was soft, vulnerable, passive, slow - it was no match for pure predators such as them. It hadn't even fought back. The deed done, they turned to face Crowley. What they saw took them by greater surprise than perhaps it should have.

* * *

The Serpent was enormous, and it was getting bigger by the moment, black and red scales rippling as it grew far beyond any rational size. In no time at all, it filled most of the room. It roared at them, loud and terrible, the sound rattling the walls. Ligur darted for the door, but the end of the Serpent's tail slammed against it, as the rest of the tail circled him and began to squeeze. The Serpent hadn't even been looking at him when it did this. It was focused on Hastur, standing dumbfounded next to the bed. The Serpent opened its mouth wide, wider, exposing an impossible sea of dripping fangs. Hastur managed a single, "Wait-" before the Serpent sank every one of those venomous fangs into his flesh.

The Serpent quite literally bit Hastur in half, threw its head back, and swallowed the top half whole. Meanwhile, the Serpent's tail squeezed the life out of Ligur's corporation, crushed him until his screams faded into sickening cracks. Its tongue darted, searching for more prey and putting several holes into the plaster of the ceiling. Finding no more targets, it sniffed at the bed, at the remnants of the angelic being it had failed to protect. It elicited a low growl, nearly a moan, more expressive than any normal reptile could manage. Then it coiled itself around the around the room, settled its giant head half-onto the similarly-sized mattress, careful not to disturb its contents, and got to the slow, languid work of digesting half a demon.

* * *

#### The Ethereal Plane, 4 Hours, 26 Minutes Til the End of the World

Aziraphale stood in Heaven's lobby, discorporated, bewildered, humiliated, and _livid._ There was no question, no second-guessing himself, no wondering whether the demon was playing some sort of long-game. He knew what he'd felt last night, what he'd felt minutes before those creatures set upon him. He'd been lied to, irreparably harmed, put through indignities no being should be subjected to, and worse than any of the rest, they'd taken the love of his life away from him, for the mere crime of loving him at all. And now here he was, disembodied and trapped, with no immediate recourse.

But the discorporation had done one thing for him - though the Bonds on his wings were deeper than the physical, his arms were finally free. He felt stronger, though still not in his best shape3 He wondered whether the Archangels intended to keep his wings Bound through the War. He wondered whether they expected him to die in battle.

The reception desk was empty. When he shoved through the giant doors, no one said anything. No one waited in the room beyond. He sighed, impatient and furious, but also a bit relieved. Everyone was prepping for war, and he wasn't about to join them. He wasn't quite sure what he should do, but he didn't want to be here any longer than he had to, didn't want to be caught by the wrong people, someone who might try to keep him here. He looked around Gabriel's stark, bare office for some sort of clue. His attention landed on the desk. There was a checklist on it.

✓ Verify Armory submitted weapon requisition forms 34492A and 43329B

✓ Test sharpness on Fifth Seal ribbon-cutting scissors

✓ Oversee Trumpeter Final Rehearsal

Get Michael's sign-off on A.Z.'s RIE (form 99831-022C) 

Ensure armor still fits (triple-check)

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at the vague entry about some random form, including what could easily be a stand-in for his own name. Granted, about 20,000 angels had an A and a Z somewhere in their names, but…

He rifled through the other papers on the desk and found it rather easily, as it was near the top of the pile. Several things stood out to him immediately. Most immediately, the form's name: _Form 99831-022C - Request for Immediate Extinction_.4

Gabriel was listed as the Requestor. Of the eleven Justifications For Extinction, all but _two_ had been checked. 5 One of those justifications was "Failure to Fall following Serious Incident", which shook him deeply. This form appeared to be carte-blanche for any angel with enough authority to simply order the extinction of another, regardless of their devotion to the Lord. In fact, among the various Reprimands listed under Previous Disciplinary Actions were two separate Requests to Fall, both denied.6 And yet this form allowed them to bypass normal channels and simply…kill someone. The Requested Extinction Method was filled in as "8F: Armageddon - Non-Retrieval", whatever that was supposed to mean.

Worst of all, his name and formal title were undeniably listed under "To Be Extincted".

He stared at the form for much longer than the time it took to read it. He found Appendix A, helpfully printed in impossibly tiny font on the back of the form, and read the description of what, exactly, Method 8F consisted of. Then he had to have a sit-down, physical body or no. Beyond the simple shock that such a form existed, its contents were…horrifying. He'd known about their animosity, of course he'd known, it had been obvious for a long time, even to him. But this…

The Archangels didn't expect him to die in the War. They expected him to be caught up in the humans' apocalypse, Bound and helpless. And once he'd been discorporated, they would simply never allow him back in. He wouldn't Fall, but he wouldn't be accepted back into the Host, either. They would leave him to wander the remnants of Earth, abandoned, as good as dead. Sure, perhaps he would make it over to Purgatory, or perhaps Hell would take him in, unfallen or no. But perhaps, as the Form clearly intended, he would simply fade into nothingness over time, separated just enough from Heaven's Grace to experience the spiritual equivalent of starving to death. Either way, problem solved; no more Aziraphale.

That wasn't just cruel, it was monstrous. It was _evil_. And it was an available option on some cold, bureaucratic form.

He looked above him, confused and frightened.

"Did you _know_ about this? Were you _really_ going to let them…? Dear God, have they ever done something like this to anyone _else_?"

He knew he wouldn't get an answer, and was unsurprised when he didn't. But he also had a thought in that moment, something he'd never even considered before. He felt certain that this was not something the Lord would approve of, regardless of her occasional temper. But as had been demonstrated to him again and again, Heaven was not the Lord.

"…Are you… _testing_ them? You _are_ , aren't You? You're testing all of us! Humans, angels, perhaps even demons, it doesn't _matter_ , does it? You've been testing us all, the entire time."

He lowered his gaze, took the discorporated equivalent of a deep breath, and tried to calm down. It didn't matter whether it was true - it was what he chose to believe. That was the thing about faith, it was a choice in so many ways, even for an angel. And in this moment, as in so many others, making that choice helped him to continue on, do what needed doing.

And right now, what needed doing was keeping the Earth, and all of its inhabitants, safe. He believed that as well, to the depths of his broken soul.

He stood and glanced around, surprised no one had caught him yet.

 _They're all rabid for the War_ , he thought, _Nobody's thinking about paperwork_.

With that in mind, he snatched the form from the desk, stuffed it into an astral pocket, and left the room. He had to find a way back down to Earth. He had to get back before there wasn't an Earth left to return to.

* * *

3\. An angel's wings are not merely for flight; they hold a significant amount of power. [Back]

4\. Interested readers can find a PDF reproduction of the full form [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Ud4205wGIRAw03Xuz3B8DmBEMyiBzAQI/view?usp=sharing). [Back]

5\. Though he was proud to note that the two unchecked were "Unfaithfulness to the Almighty" and "History of Evil Intent/Thought/Deed". As far as Aziraphale was concerned, those were the only two on the list which mattered, anyway. [Back]

6\. He couldn't help but notice that one of these was dated 1943, and yet whatever they'd done to him only three years later was conspicuously absent from the otherwise thorough list. [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, 3 Hours, 53 Minutes Til the End of the World

Crowley's snake-like thoughts were typically somewhat rudimentary, but with the added blind rage, they had essentially boiled down to impulse. _Mine. Enemy. Angry. Kill. Crush. Devour. Sad._ Now with the threat gone, the rage began to sputter out, and as it drained from him, something resembling rational thought returned. His giant eyes took in the room, examined the result of his reflexive attack. The lower-half of a demon lying beside the bed. A pile of flesh and shattered bones which used to be another demon, piled by the door. The unspeakable carnage the discorporated demons had wrought upon the angel's corporeal form. An unmitigated disaster, wrought in a matter of minutes.

A thing crossed his mind then that was not a thought. It was audible, a clear sound inside his head. It was his own human-like voice, as though he stood beside himself, speaking into his own ear.

_"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."_

He was nearly transported to another time and place. All the way back to Eden. It was real, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name, which was coming back to him now. 7 He tried to understand what might be happening, and realized he needed a more complex brain for that line of thinking. He banished the remaining weight inside him, and within seconds he was in human form, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. The words came again, loud and present, like the auditory hallucinations he used to get when he pushed his corporal form past its sleep limits.

_"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."_

He knew he hadn't been talking to himself. He'd said it to someone. He'd been in the Garden, just after the Humans had been cast out, and he'd _said it to someone_. Who would he have been talking to? There weren't any other demons in the Garden, that he could remember. Really, he wasn't clear on much of anything about Eden after the Humans' exile. But now suddenly this memory - hazy, ancient, but _new_. Why? How? Was it something to do with having been in serpent form? How did that make sense? He'd spent the majority of the 80s and 90s as a snake, _nothing_ like this had happened. But then, circumstances were rather different at the moment, weren't they?

_"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."_

He stared at the angel's remains, the sentence running through his head on a loop, and rather than relief at having recovered a memory for the first time, he felt only a deep, all-consuming terror.

* * *

7\. Crawly, of course. Wait, no. No, it hadn't been Crawly for…oh, for millennia. He was Crowley. Anthony Crowley. [Back]

* * *

#### The Fields of Megiddo, 3 Hours, 41 Minutes Til the End of the World

Warlock sat in the back of the car, flanked by security, as his parents argued from the front seats over what, exactly, they were doing here in the first place. He was more or less successfully tuning them out, focused instead on his Nintendo Switch, on his latest Minecraft build. He barely even noticed the car stop.

"Come on, kiddo, time to take some pictures," his dad said, and he rolled his eyes.

"Dad, don't _call_ me that! It's _weird_."

"Warlock honey, don't talk to your father like that," his mother said distractedly, mere minutes after she'd called his father something much worse than, 'weird'. She finished checking her makeup in her mirror and stepped out of the car. Warlock reluctantly followed her, eyes still glued to the screen, and paused with the car door still open.

It was really hot, hotter than it had been when he got into the car at the airport. He glanced around - they were in a desert. Why would they be in a _desert?_ Why did he have to wear a _suit_ in a _desert?_

"Why, hello there," said a voice, low and oily and _deeply_ unpleasant, and Warlock looked up. Before them stood a…man? It looked sort-of like a man. It was man-shaped, it sounded a little like one. But everything about it was…wrong. The eyes weren't quite in the right place, the mouth was a bit too wide, the posture a bit too uneven. This wasn't a disfigured person…this simply wasn't a _person_ , no matter how much it pretended to be…and it wasn't even pretending very hard.

He set the Switch down in the backseat and the guard nearest him shut the car door. He stood close to the guard, almost behind him. Beneath his shirt, the pendant tingled, like pins and needles against his skin.

His father didn't seem to notice, approached the 'man' as though everything was completely normal.

"You're the tour guide, I take it? Thaddeus Dowling, pleasure!"

His father reached out a hand for the guide to shake, and the man-creature simply stared at it, as if unsure how to respond. His father pulled his hand back and shrugged at the guard nearest him. The man-creature pushed past him and headed straight for Warlock, who jumped at the quick intensity of its movements. It didn't move like a person, either. It dropped to its knees in front of him, as if it was…bowing to him?

The tingle increased, and he resisted reaching a hand up to it. He hoped it wasn't glowing or something. He was suddenly very glad that no one knew he was wearing it.

The man-creature looked up at him and Warlock saw that each of its eyes had three pupils. Also, the irises were bright pink. Why hadn't anyone else noticed that something was wrong? He looked around, and none of the adults even seemed to be paying attention, not even the guards. No one seemed to register that the thing had focused on him like this. What was going on?

"My Lord," it said in hushed awe, "My name is Andras, and I have been sent to serve you."

"…What?" Warlock could barely speak, he was so terrified. The creature kneeling before him wasn't threatening him, far from it, but it seemed like that was almost worse?

"We await the Horsemen, my master," the creature said, and Warlock only stared at him, "I am sorry they are so late already. Please, spare me from your terrible wrath, I beg of you."

The pendant was burning now, but he didn't want to take it off, not for anything.

"…What the hell are you talking about?"

The creature stared back at him. It sniffed suddenly, as if it had caught wind of something unpleasant. It retrained its eyes on him, and all of its awe and reverence had vanished. Now its face held only malice, and although it seemed more fitting, it was no less upsetting.

"You…are _not_ my Master," it said, sneering, "You are a _human_!"

"…Uh, yeah," Warlock said, his natural snarkiness covering some of his fear, "Duh, obviously."

The creature snarled and grabbed for him, and several things happened at once:

The creature's hand closed over his arm, and the pendant began to glow, a bright, blinding light that drowned out everything else for a second. The creature shrieked and pulled back, its hand blistering and peeling, revealing what almost looked like some kind of claw or talon underneath, knotted and black. Warlock stumbled back and fell, too scared to scream. The creature continued to yell, careening backwards, and one by one, the adults seemed to suddenly, finally, notice that something was happening. The guards surrounded the writhing, howling creature, guns drawn. His mother ran toward him, but was stopped a few feet away from him by some sort of invisible barrier. Warlock looked down at his chest, at the glow still emanating from the pendant, and was surprised that it didn't hurt to look at, bright as it was. The glow was frightening, but somehow comforting. The burn was gone, replaced by a gentle warmth, like being swaddled in a blanket on a cold day.

Like one of Nanny's best hugs.

He shut his eyes and whispered in a hushed, panicked mantra, "Help me, Nanny, help me, please, I wanna' go home, I wanna' be with you, I wanna' go home, I wanna' go home…"

And then, to the utter hysteria of every adult who witnessed it, including his own mother, the boy simply…vanished.

* * *

#### Somewhere Between Realities, Near Tadfield, 3 Hours, 22 Minutes Til the End of the World

Aziraphale was in the general vicinity of Earth, that was clear. But he had no idea where on Earth he was. He had no way of seeing his surroundings as he wasn't, technically, surrounded by anything. But he could sense the material plane adjacent to himself, 'hear' it in a manner of speaking. And what he 'heard' was someone who seemed to be crying. No, that wasn't quite right. It was someone who seemed to be in _hysterics_ , sobbing and muttering in irregular bursts. The muttering sounded something like, "red balloon", over and over, like the chant of a madman. He was having difficulty locating the source of the sound. He opened his astral eye, aware that he wouldn't be able to navigate much better than before, but thinking he might be able to at least find some sort of landmark, maybe a place of power or a nexus point. What he did see startled him quite a bit.

Almost directly in front of him was a long, winged figure, coiled in on itself in impossible knots. It struggled, writhed as though trying to both tie itself further and pull itself free all at once, wings beating in a futile attempt at escape. There was a faint impression of reptilian eyes, cold scales, black and red. It was the Serpent. And he was in considerable spiritual distress.

Aziraphale reached out to him with his astral mind.

_Serpent? Can you hear me?_

The figure jumped as if shocked, and its squirming intensified. Aziraphale heard it speak from the material plane.

"No! No, I'm not- You're not- I can't- It's a lead balloon, the angel's not- Go away!"

Oh, this was very bad. All at once, Aziraphale realized what his discorporation must have been like for the Serpent. How terrible a sight it must have been. How precariously fragile the Serpent's general state of mind had already been before he'd been forced to witness the lost love of his life being torn to pieces by demons. Surely, he knew Aziraphale wasn't gone for good, but it was still more grisly a sight than anyone should ever have to endure. And with time so short before the End, who knew when, or if, they would ever see each other again? He must be absolutely beside himself.

_Serpent, it's me, it's Azir- …it's the angel. I came back. I can't quite see you, I'm afraid. Can you see me?_

"No!" the word came loud and defensive, desperate, "I'm not seeing you, I'm not-," the Serpent sobbed, his next words a plaintive whisper, "…I'm not mad…"

_No, you're not mad, I promise you. I'm here, really. I came back down as soon as I could._

The Serpent whimpered but didn't otherwise respond. Aziraphale tried a different tack.

He collected his astral form into something approximating a human shape, and reached out to the Serpent, touched an astral hand to astral coils. The Serpent recoiled, but Aziraphale stayed put, waited patiently. After a few moments, the Serpent's form moved toward him again, cautious and frightened. When their astral bodies met, Aziraphale could instantly feel the Serpent's emotions, and he was hit with waves of deep sorrow, vast grief, confused panic, and above all, utter terror. A fear so immense that Aziraphale had to fight against it invading his own emotional landscape. For a moment, he got a brief picture of the Serpent on the material realm, of the state he was in. It was worse than he'd feared.

The Serpent was in human form, shoved up against one corner of the room, curled into a ball, hugging himself with shaking arms, violently wracked with sobs. He was covered in blood, and somehow Aziraphale knew none of it was the demon's own - he must have taken care of the intruders. Certainly, it didn't look like he was trying to shield himself from any external attack. But it did look like he was trying to retreat as far into himself as possible.

Aziraphale tried to project calm, reassurance. He focused on his love for the Serpent, tried to pass it on.

_Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry to have left you like that. But I'm here now. I know you're frightened, but you're not mad, I promise you. You've been through a major shock, that's all. Feeling so much all at once …it's not an easy thing to manage, I know. But it's all right, you're all right. I'm right here. I'm between worlds, I came back down without a corporation. That's what you're seeing, it's the bit of me that's between the astral and the material. You can feel my astral form, can't you?_

"Y…yeah…"

_Focus on that. Focus on me. You told me you learned to meditate, now's the perfect time to use those skills. Just breathe. Best you can, just clear your mind, focus on me, and breathe._

Aziraphale stroked his side. Slowly, painfully slowly, the Serpent began to relax. The coils of his astral form loosened a bit, began to untie themselves. His wings stopped beating with such intensity. The surges of emotion became less intense, spiked less frequently. His astral body began to move in a much more regular, steady circulation, similar to the way it had the first time Aziraphale had seen it, the first time the Serpent came to his shop.

_That's it. It's all right. It's going to be all right, I promise. I'm right here._

The Serpent began winding his way up Aziraphale's arm, across his shoulders, down his side. In a minute or so, he'd wrapped his astral body around Aziraphale's entirely, clinging tightly, head draped over his shoulder. Aziraphale found himself stroking the Serpent's head, and he wondered whether this was something they had ever done, a lifetime ago, physically or otherwise.

"…What do I do now?" the demon asked in a plaintive whisper.

_Right now? Nothing. Right now, we're going to stay right here, just like this, until you're feeling a bit calmer. After that, I'm going to try and find a willing vessel, and you should go find Anathema._

"…The witch? Why?"

_Because I'm willing to bet if you do, she'll have a prophecy or two about it. She'll know what to do, I promise. I trust her, you should too._8

The Serpent squeezed tighter and Aziraphale felt his panic surge a bit.

"…Don't leave me. The moment you do, I'm going to lose it again, I know it."

_Oh my dear, I wish I could stay, believe me. But I'll come find you as soon as I'm able. I will not abandon you again, Serpent. I refuse to. I won't let you face this day alone. This or any other. And as God is my witness, there will be days beyond this one. We shall make sure of it together._

"…I love you, angel. …Sorry. Sorry, that's creepy, isn't it? We're barely even…Yeah, it's creepy. Sorry."

Aziraphale felt an ache stronger even than the one which had accompanied him the past 80 years. He longed for nothing more than to have real arms to hold the Serpent in.

 _No, my darling, it's nothing of the sort. I love you, too._

* * *

8\. He really believed this. Agnes Nutter was eccentric, granted, but she was no fool, and neither was her very prudent descendant. [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, Saturday, 2 Hours, 49 Minutes Til the End of the World

The hurricane had just died down, and Anathema and Newt were just getting dressed again, when the knock at the door came, urgent and loud. She checked the clock and mentally located the relevant cards.

"Whoever could that be?" Newt said, bewildered from the events of the past 18 or so hours.

"If memory serves," Anathema said, slipping her glasses on, "That'll be 'the apostate of darkness'…who or whatever that is."

She rushed to the front door, and Newt followed, pulling on his shirt and upsetting his own glasses in the process, "I'm sorry, the _what_?"

Anathema rolled her eyes, flipped open a box on the hallway table, pulled out the relevant card and handed it over. Newt read it with the same baffled expression he'd worn for half a day now.

4229\. The Apoftayte of Darkenesse shalle comme, stayned bye blud of love an hayte. Worry notte oer his wordes, for brokenne Spiryt maketh fore brokenne Minde. Leede him to Thyne harthe and tende to his Delereum. The loft childe awaytes inne His chariot.

"Just a warning," Anathema said as she reached for the handle, "That's one of the more cryptic ones, we could never agree on exactly what it means. I have next to no idea what's behind this door."

She opened it. Behind it stood a lanky, red-haired man who did not look at all like someone she wanted to invite inside. He didn't even look like _he_ wanted to be invited inside, really. This 'apostate' was certainly stained by blood, all right. He was half-covered in it, actually, even rain-soaked as he was. She suspected that if he weren't wearing all-black, she could probably see more. She wondered how he managed to get here without being stopped by some sort of authority or other.9 He was fidgeting, rocking from foot to foot, head on a paranoid swivel, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the other worrying the hem of his t-shirt. There was something strange about his eyes, but she had to concentrate hard to realize what it was. They were not only the wrong color, they were the wrong shape: golden irises, slitted pupils.

 _What the hell, Agnes?_ She thought, for about the 500th time in her life.

"…Angel…" the man muttered, not quite looking at her, "Angel said find the witch…it's a lead balloon, they ripped him up, but he came back, the angel said-"

"Hang on- Are you talking about Aziraphale?" Anathema said, stepping back a little. She wasn't entirely sure the man was dangerous, but she was quite wary. Though the vibe he was giving off was significantly more fear than menace, people could still do some pretty heinous things out of fear.

The man winced when she said Aziraphale's name, "Eeh, probably? Yeah, I dunno, it's all a lead balloon, angel said find the witch…you're-"

"I'm the witch," she nodded, "Yeah. That's right. He _told_ you to come here?"

He nodded, still looking just about anywhere but at her. She sighed.

"Okay. Come on."

She waved him inside. He glanced up at the door frame several times before giving what seemed like a defeated shrug and stepping through the door. He winced again as he did so, hissed in pain.

"Fucking horseshoes," he muttered, and somehow that was what made everything fall into place for her.

"Oh, I get it. You're a _demon_. But you're not working for Hell anymore." It wasn't a question.

He shrugged, "Not going back Up, not going back Down. 'S a lead balloon."

"Yeah…you uh…you said that."

The demon reddened and ran a hand over his face, as if trying to collect himself, "…Sorry…I'm not…I can't…mmph…" He winced again, this time seemingly at his own inability to craft a coherent thought.

 _Broken spirit makes for broken mind_ , she thought.

"Don't worry about it," she said, in what she hoped was a compassionate tone, "Come on, I might be able to help."

She led him into the kitchen and gestured to a chair. The demon looked around a moment before reluctantly sitting down. He folded his arms on the table and sank his head into them, face-down. He seemed content to stay there, so Anathema set to work looking up every potion recipe she had relating to demons, and the care and feeding thereof.

* * *

When Newt first saw the man, he all but fled into the sitting room. The man didn't look like anyone Newt wanted to mess with in any possible way. At any rate, Anathema seemed to know what she was doing, or at least projected enough confidence to provide a comforting illusion of competence, and that was enough for him. He busied himself looking through her antichrist-hunting materials and box full of strange prophecies and tried not to eavesdrop on their conversation. 10

But after a while, he began to notice a pattern. Anathema would ask the man a question, or give him some sort of instruction, or say _something_ which warranted a response. When the man responded at all, he did so in short, disorganized sentence fragments, often repeating himself. Often, in fact, repeating one strange, seemingly non-sequitur phrase. Sometimes he would simply make some frightened or disgruntled noise or other and keep mum. Sometimes he would respond in ways which sounded as if he suspected Anathema might be trying to poison him, or working with some shadowy "Them" who meant him harm. Then he would clam up entirely, and it would be minutes before Anathema could get anything out of him again. This went on for nearly a full hour.

All of it sounded incredibly familiar to Newt.

* * *

Anathema sat opposite the demon, a mug-full of potion between them. She had been entirely unsuccessful in getting him to drink it. This was intensely frustrating, because the potion was essentially a spiritual multivitamin, designed to strengthen the demonic constitution. It was, in fact, the precise thing the demon needed to get his soul, and consequently his mind, into better working order. But trying to convince him of this was, apparently, next to impossible.

"Look, you came to _me_ , okay? You _asked_ for my help, this is me helping! Aziraphale _said_ I could help you, didn't he? Don't you trust him?"

"Trust _him_ , don't trust _you_ , _you're_ a lead balloon," the demon muttered and Anathema took a deep breath, suppressing a growl.

"Er, everything all right in here?"

Anathema jumped at the sound of Newt's voice. She had genuinely forgotten he was even there.

The demon sat bolt upright and stared at Newt in abject horror. He glanced repeatedly at Anathema, looking at her face for the first time, seemingly trying to reassure himself that things were still relatively okay. He looked as though he might cry.

"It's okay," she said, to both of them, "Everything's fine. We're just having some…communication issues." She looked pointedly at Newt, "You don't need to worry about it, I've got it handled, you can go-"

Newt sat at the table with a sense of purpose Anathema hadn't yet seen him display. The demon kept his eyes trained on him the whole time, vigilant and suspicious.

"Hi," Newt said, in a kind yet shockingly confident tone, "Terribly sorry to interrupt. Thought I'd introduce myself. I'm Anathema's friend. My name's Newt. I'd like to know your name, if you're alright with that."

Anathema realized with a mix of embarrassment and shame that in all this time, she'd never even thought to ask. Though the way Newt asked seemed a bit…odd.

The demon gave Newt a long, calculating stare. Finally he looked away in a sort of defeat.

"Crowley," said Crowley, grudgingly.

"Hi Crowley," Newt said, that same calm, confident tone, "Normally I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you. But with the sort of day you seem to be having, I doubt pleasure really enters into it."

To Anathema's great surprise, the demon smiled a little at this. She hadn't ever gotten more than a petulant grimace out of him.

"You could say that," Crowley muttered, in a slightly less standoffish tone than she'd heard him use thus-far, "…like a lead balloon…"

Newt gave him an inquisitive smile, "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by 'lead balloon'. Could you explain it to me?"

Crowley frowned at him and watched him for another long, suspicious moment. Then he shrugged and stared into the table. He gestured vaguely to his ear.

"…Keep um…keep hearing it…'went down like a lead balloon'…'s like I'm saying it to myself, but I won't…shut-up. It's really fucking intrusive, it's a fucking lead…balloon…augh! I can't think around it. Keeps coming out…I don't mean it to…Sorry."

Newt shook his head, "No need to apologize. That sounds incredibly frustrating, I imagine I'd be rather cross, myself."

Crowley laughed and ran his hands through his hair, "Yeah…yeah, might use a stronger word than _cross_ but…yeah. It's a fucking lead…" he stopped himself, but he also slammed a frustrated hand onto the table. Anathema jumped. Newt didn't even flinch.

Crowley gave Anathema an apologetic glance, "…Sorry."

"Again, quite understandable," said Newt, who sounded as though he was making congenial small-talk at a business conference, "Were it me, I'd be just about ready to scream."

Crowley smiled again, a little more this time, "Not much of a screamer, me."

Newt continued to smile back at him.

"Did I understand you correctly? You say someone _told_ you to come here?"

Crowley nodded, "…The angel said go see the witch…she'll know what to do…got prophecies."

Newt glanced at Anathema, who nodded slightly.

"And you believe this person?"

He nodded, chewed at his thumb, "Got to. He's the…only one left."

"You know, Anathema, perhaps I should show him the prophecy you showed me. If he's already expecting one, it might go a long way toward your credibility."

Anathema could have kicked herself. Why hadn't she thought of that an _hour_ ago? She'd been so hung-up on getting the demon to just stop rambling and _listen_ to her that she'd become somewhat single-minded about the whole thing.

"Yeah of…of course! Do you still have it?"

"Yep," he pulled it from his back pocket and slid it over to the demon.

Crowley inspected it for a long time. Then he started to laugh. Softly at first, almost to himself, but then the laughter grew loud, more-than-slightly unhinged, yet still very genuine. He picked up the mug.

"What the hell, gotta' go sometime, yeah? Only a few hours left anyway, then it's all a lead _fucking_ balloon. Bottom's up Agnes, you mad old thing."

He tipped the mug to the prophecy, then drank the potion in one long gulp, as Newt and Anathema looked on in puzzled surprise. When he slammed the cup back down onto the table, he already looked a bit less agitated. He got to his feet and swayed ever so slightly.

"You're um…probably going to want to lie-down," Anathema said, having intended to deliver this information prior to his drinking it, "It's going to take a couple minutes, and you might feel a little-"

"Dizzy? Yeah, I uh…I got that impression," Crowley said, rubbing his temples, "Sofa or something?"

"In here."

Anathema helped him to it. He flopped onto it and shut his eyes. She returned to the kitchen, where Newt sat with his chin in his hand. She grabbed his other hand and dragged him out to the back garden. As soon as the door closed behind them, she whirled on him.

"How the _hell_ did you _do_ that?" she hissed, hoping she'd made it out of supernatural earshot, "I spend the better part of an hour trying to get him to take it and you manage it in five minutes?"

Newt shrugged, awkward and meek once again, "Erm…I'm sort-of used to it?"

Anathema stared at him blankly. Newt shrugged again.

"If you want to have any sort of real conversation with somebody in psychosis, you've got to listen to them, same as anybody. Granted, it's a bit of a struggle sometimes, but it's mostly a matter of figuring out what they want, what they're really thinking behind all the…" he waved vaguely in the general direction of his head, "Noise. You can't go ordering somebody about like that, and you certainly can't go expecting them to accept unknown beverages from complete strangers with nothing more than a, 'Take this, it's good for you', can you? I mean, it's not exactly a state of mind that inspires blind trust, is it?"

Anathema continued to stare, but her expression was shifting from baffled to impressed.

"You're telling me you know how to talk to _psychotic_ people?"

Newt nodded, "People in psychosis, yes."

"How do you even know what psychosis looks like? You don't strike me as the type to moonlight in psychology, I thought you said you worked in IT."

"Oh um…I do, I just…" he shrugged yet again, "My elder brother's schizophrenic. We had a rough couple of years before I learned how to talk to him when he's off his meds. Our relationship improved significantly once I did. He's one of my best friends now, actually. Only family I speak to at all, really."

Anathema narrowed her eyes, "I'm starting to think I might have underestimated you."

"Er, thank you?"

She kissed him, and he kissed back, and they stayed that way until the kitchen door swung open, revealing a calm, collected, blood-free and absolutely cool demon.

"Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but haven't we got an Armageddon to prevent?"

* * *

When the room stopped spinning, Crowley opened his eyes. He sat up, stretched, looked around. Even though he knew he couldn't have been lying on that sofa for more than a minute or two, he felt as though he'd had a good few years' worth of quality, restful sleep. The voice was _gone_. He could _think_. And what's more, he felt spiritually and emotionally balanced in a way he hadn't in years, centuries, maybe even millennia. He wasn't anxious, he wasn't depressed - the void was still there, sure, but he felt…okay about it. Able to cope. He felt ready to take on the End of the World, whatever that might look like. What on earth had the witch _given_ him? And how long would it _last_?

In any case, he planned to take full advantage as long as it was in effect. He looked down at his blood-spattered arms and felt more than a little embarrassed at the way he'd introduced himself to these two very helpful humans. He sighed, then snapped. And just like that, he was presentable again, not a hair out of place (aside from the fashionable messy half-bun), new sunglasses, the works.

"Aahh. Much better."

He wandered into the kitchen and found it empty. He found the prophecy still sitting on the table, and read it again. He smirked at the bit that had set him off laughing in the first place. 'The Apostate of Darkness'. That certainly had a better ring to it than 'Hell's flunkie' didn't it? He sensed that the humans had slipped outside, and turned toward the garden door. He chuckled to himself at the sight through the window. Humans - any excuse to snog. He threw the door open, finding a certain mischievous joy in disrupting them.

"Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but haven't we got an Armageddon to prevent? Time's a' wasting. And while I've got you, what the heaven's that bit about a kid in a chariot, anyway?"

* * *

9\. She also wondered, in complete seriousness, who he'd killed, and whether he was finished. [Back]

10\. Much of what either was saying didn't make a lick of sense anyway, so there was no point, really. [Back]

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, Saturday, 1 Hour, 12 Minutes Til the End of the World

After a few minutes' heated discussion, they agreed Agnes was directing them to Tadfield Air Base. With poor Dick Turpin still feeling the unfortunate effects of Newt's earlier accident, there was a bit of argument over how to get there. Ultimately, Crowley simply began walking down the street, back toward Aziraphale's house. Newt and Anathema followed him, warily.

"Ah," Newt whispered to Anathema, "Are you sure he's okay to drive?"

"I can hear you," Crowley called behind him, "And I'm fine. Right as rain. That witchy girlfriend of yours knows her stuff. I'm considering hiring her as a personal chemist."

"Oh, uh, she's not, um, we're not…are we?"

Anathema rolled her eyes, "Not the time."

"Right."

They arrived at the car and Crowley leaned against it with a smug grin.

"Oh wow!" Newt said, geeking out immediately, "Is that a '26 Bentley? Is it seriously yours? The condition is fabulous, how'd you-"

He reached out to the bonnet and Crowley smacked his hand away.

"No touching! I've had her from new, and I'll not have her sullied with your grubby little human paws."

Newt either didn't hear him, or ignored him.

"This thing's incredible! Hang on, from _new_? How old _are_ -"

"No time for that, just get in. Our chariot awaits!"

Anathema peered through the windshield, "Interesting choice of words," she said, "There's a kid in the backseat."

Crowley did a series of double-takes, first at her, then at the backseat, where indeed, a small, dark shape sat curled into one corner.

"Wha-? How-? It was locked…"

He threw open the back door. Then he gasped and climbed into the car. A young boy's voice said something that sounded like, "Nanny!" Then the door slammed shut, and all the windows went black, blocking their view of anything within. Newt and Anathema tried the doors, found them locked, and exchanged more wary glances.

* * *

"Nanny!"

Crowley gasped again as Warlock launched himself at him and wrapped him in a massive hug. Crowley hugged back.

"How-?"

Then he remembered the charm he'd placed on the pendant, the one that was supposed to whisk him out of danger if something catastrophic were to occur. He pulled away from the boy and began frantically looking him over, checking for injury.

"My darling boy, what happened? What did they do to you? Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," the boy said, though he flinched when Crowley touched his right arm.

Crowley rolled up the boy's sleeve and inspected his arm. The injury was something between a bruise and a burn - a demon had grabbed him.

"I'm okay," Warlock said again, "It's okay, it doesn't hurt."

Crowley stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, "No need to put on a brave face, love. I'll set it right."

He passed his hand over the mark, and it vanished. Warlock stared at his arm.

"Whoa…cool. How'd you do that?"

"Never mind, love, tell me what happened."

"We were in Israel for dad's work and there was this weird guy and I don't even think he was a guy he was some kind of monster and he tried to grab me but then the thing started glowing and-"

"Back up, what was weird about the guy?"

Warlock shrugged, "I don't know, he was just weird, like his skin didn't fit right, and his eyes were weird, not weird like yours but like, _weird_ weird, and nobody did anything when he tried to grab me, I think maybe he made it so none of the grown-ups knew we were there for a minute?"

"Did he tell you his name?"

"Um…An…Andys? Anders?"

"Andras?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why, do you know him or something?"

"We used to work together," Crowley said darkly, "And the next time I see him, I'm going to rip him to fucking pieces."

"Um…you might not have to," Warlock grinned wickedly, "He didn't look so great last I saw him."

Crowley returned the grin, "Good."

"Hey, um…thanks for this," Warlock pulled the pendant from under his shirt, "It really worked. That's what I mean, when he tried to grab me, it started glowing and then I think maybe it burned him up?"

"I suspected as much. Keep it on for me, all right?"

"Are you kidding? I'm gonna wear this thing for the rest of my life!"

"That's my boy."

Crowley sat back, smiling at him. Warlock smiled back for a moment, but then his face fell and he buried his head into Crowley's chest. Crowley held him close.

"It's all right now, love. Nanny's here."

"…It was kinda scary," the boy said, sounding more than a little embarrassed to admit it, "I was sorta scared."

"That's all right. It's all right to be scared, fear keeps us alive, it makes sure we're on the lookout for danger. Do you think something might have gone differently if you hadn't been scared?"

"…Maybe. Maybe the weird guy's magic would have worked on me, too, and then I wouldn't even know he was dangerous until it was too late, like the grown-ups."

"There you are, then. You stayed alert, and it kept you safe. That's a good thing."

"…I texted my mom a bunch of times, but she didn't answer. Are they gonna be okay?"

"Well…be honest, I'm not sure, but I think so. Andras was only after you, and you're not there anymore."

"And he's barbecue," Warlock giggled and Crowley laughed.

"I'm glad the pendant did its job. That's what got you here, out of danger."

"…But why did I end up in your car?"

"What do you think?"

"…I dunno. There was already magic happening, and I just felt like maybe if I said I wanted to go home something would happen, and then I was here."

"Well…maybe when you thought of home, you thought of all the time we spent together. Perhaps you've got a bit of a bond with this old girl. Do you remember when I used to take you on errands and you'd spend half the afternoon back here while I was at the shops?"

"Yeah. I like it back here. It's…cozy. That's the right word, right?"

Crowley nodded, "Probably so."

"And whenever I'm in your car I never have to charge my phone, so that's pretty cool. That's kind-of why I stayed here. Part of it, anyway. It's…weird outside. It feels funny, like bad funny. And anyway, I don't even know where we are. But I figured you had to come back to your car sometime, so I've just been sitting here on my phone the whole time."

"Very sensible of you."

Crowley pondered Warlock's commentary on the "wrongness" of the area, and his ability to see through a demon's human disguise, when he shouldn't have been able to, even as poorly-crafted as it likely was. He wondered whether being raised by a demon might provide a human with certain advantages, certain powers of perception, even if they didn't know it.

"…Nanny, are you a spy?"

"…Er…sorry?"

"I mean like, are you in disguise right now? Or were you in disguise before? Because sometimes you're like a girl and sometimes you're like a boy and it's _always_ been like that and I was just wondering if it was something you were doing as some kind of like secret-agent super-secret spy stuff because you're so secretive and mysterious and stuff and you said you used to work with that Anders guy or whatever and it seemed like he was probably some kind of spy or like in a cult or something."

"…Erm…"

"Or wait, are you just like, genderqueer or whatever?"

"Er…Huh. Come to think of it, that sounds about right. The second one, I mean."

"Oh. The spy thing was stupid, it was probably kind-of a messed up thing to say, I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. Really I…never quite put that much thought into it." He shrugged, "Just sort of look however I feel like looking. Though you do have a bit of a point, actually. I admit, when I was on the job, I looked the way I did around your family so you all would think specific things of me, especially your mother. In that way, I suppose it was a sort of disguise."

"That's cool. I was just wondering."

Warlock pulled out his phone and opened a game. Crowley remembered the world beyond the interior of the car, and its very limited lifespan.

"Look, I've got some friends waiting outside, we've got to go do something really important. But I'd feel better having you with me, so come on up to the front with me so they can get in the back, all right?"

Warlock shrugged. Crowley climbed out of the car and the boy dutifully followed, nose buried into his phone.

* * *

"So," Newt said, "Who's this?"

"This is Warlock, he's er…he's with me. Warlock, this is Anathema and Newt."

"Hey," Warlock said without looking away from his game.

"Okay," Anathema said, "Prophecy fulfilled, I suppose. Can we go now, or…?"

"Yeah, of course, obviously, get in. Hurry up."

Anathema gave him a dirty look, but did so. The others followed suit. When everyone was inside, the Bentley roared to life, but didn't move. Crowley gave Warlock a _look_. The boy rolled his eyes, huffed, set his phone down long enough to put his seat belt on, then immediately picked it up again. Crowley gave a satisfied nod and pulled onto the road.

"Er," said Newt, "Any chance someone might explain _why_ there was a child in the car? Or why we're suddenly bringing him along?"

"Nope," said Warlock, popping the 'p' and still not looking up.

Crowley smiled proudly and didn't say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Dissociation, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture, implied sex, major angst, psychosis, psychotic episode, physical violence, Trauma, Whump


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### Just Near Tadfield Airbase, 22 Minutes Til the End of the World

The Bentley flew down the road, at speeds no reasonable person could ever expect it to. Warlock's attention was buried in his phone - his Nanny's driving was nothing new to him. Newt sat transfixed by the scenery blurring by. Anathema leaned forward to ask Crowley a question.

"…What was that?" Crowley said, and tried to listen more closely.

"How do you know ##########?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, annoyed at both the question, and the realization that he hadn't understood the question the first time because the sound of the angel's name nearly obliterated the rest of Anathema's sentence. He was really going to have to figure out something to call him, though he worried that if he did, he would be unable to remember or reproduce any name he might give him. 'Angel' seemed to work all right for now, anyway.

"Ah, I don't? But I do, actually. Or, I did? It's er…"

"Complicated?"

"Yeah. Incredibly long story. Seriously, the longest. Upshot is, we're working together on this thing."

"But where _is_ he, exactly? I'm still not clear on that bit."

"Ah…" Crowley glanced nervously at Warlock, who though seemingly oblivious to the conversation, was likely more attentive than it seemed, "Let's say he's er…indisposed? At the moment? Got…waylaid…by a couple of…my associates. A few hours ago…"

Anathema furrowed her brow, "I think I might get the picture. I assume that has something to do with your…" she also glanced at Warlock and chose her next few words carefully, "…condition when we met?"

"…Yep."

Crowley stared straight ahead and clenched his jaw. The witch's potion might have set him on an even keel, but it apparently wasn't much protection against further assaults on his emotional stability. This was a shit subject they were on, and for a moment he had to suppress an urge to yell at her until she shut up.

_Focus. Breathe. Things to do, no time for a meltdown, certainly not in front of the boy. Come on witch's brew, do your job._

Anathema seemed to be oblivious to his mood shift, "You kept saying he'd be _back_ , though. I'm not a hundred-percent on how this stuff works, but I assume that means he's not…um… _gone?_ "

"Yeah, ah…he's currently trying to find a mode of transport, so to speak. He'll be along, I expect, supposed to meet him there. Anyway, how'd you two lovebirds meet?

As the humans blushed and stammered and prattled on about prophecies and aliens and cars with silly names, Crowley took the time to try and collect himself. He was just about managing it as they pulled around a corner and a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire came into view. Anathema gestured at it.

"Let us out here."

Crowley glanced at the side of the road where Anathema was pointing. It didn't look like much of anything, just a field and a bit of the back fence.

"What, here? You sure?"

"Absolutely, pull over."

"I mean," Crowley said as he did so, "The front gate can't be more than a minute's drive from here, it wouldn't-"

"That's not where we're meant to be," Anathema said, "You've got your role, we've got ours. We'll see you later."

She grabbed Newt's hand and dragged him out of the car, then marched directly into the field toward the fence without looking back.

"All right, then," Crowley said, nonplussed. He pulled back onto the road.

"She's kinda' pushy, huh?" Warlock said, the first thing he'd said the entire ride.

"Eeh, she's all right, really, just a bit overly-driven. 'S what happens when you've been brought up to think there's only one correct way of doing things. She means well, I think."

He wasn't only saying this for Warlock's sake, he really meant it. After all, his own life had taught him a thing or two about unachievable familial expectations, and the perils of indoctrination.1

"Who is she, anyway?"

"Ah…friend of a friend?" Crowley said, and was surprised at how easy it was to describe it that way, "She's helping us with…the thing we're doing."

"…What _are_ we doing?"

"Bit of a longer story than we've time for, I'm afraid."

"You said it was important, why's it important?"

"…Not quite sure how to put it, honestly."

"Try."

Another glance showed that Warlock had put his phone down. He had a look on his face that said he wasn't going to let this go. It was a rather mature expression, and for a moment Crowley could picture what Warlock might look like as an adult. He wasn't familiar with the emotion which accompanied this thought, but it wasn't a particularly comfortable one. He sighed.

"Well…the punchline is, we're trying to stop the world from ending."

"…Oh, is _that all?_ "

Crowley shot him a sideways glare, suddenly regretting the levels of snark he'd spent years instilling in the boy.

"I told you, it's a long story, and we don't have much time. Literally."

"But…it's gonna' be dangerous?"

"…Could be, a bit."

"Do we have to fight somebody?"

"…Hard to say. I hope not, but it might come to that."

"Are we gonna' get hurt?"

"No. I won't let anything happen to you, don't worry about that."

"…But what about you?"

"We're here."

They parked and stepped out of the car. Crowley looked around. There were four children about Warlock's age standing out on the tarmac, beyond the gate. There were no guards at the gate - he'd been expecting guards. Then he realized the children were surrounded by a couple-dozen soldiers, sleeping peacefully in a semi-circle around them. That made it quite clear precisely who one of those children was.

As he stood next to the car, trying to formulate some sort of plan, think of _anything_ to do next, really, an old man on an ancient moped puttered up to the gate. There was a woman behind him, and she seemed to have a passenger of her own…

_Oh thank…whoever._

"Hallo angel," Crowley called to them, congenial and easy, "See you managed to hitch a ride after all."

"Oh, Serpent!" said the angel's voice, from the woman's mouth, as the three of them dismounted the bike, "What a relief! You're looking well!"

"Feeling it. You were right about the witch, got just the boost I needed."

"I'm so glad."

The old man looked bewildered, but he followed dutifully behind the woman/angel as they approached him. The angel/woman gave him a glowing smile, then looked down.

"Who's this?"

Crowley instinctively put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder, "This is Warlock. He's my…he's the boy I was…he was in a bit of a spot, so I've brought him along.

"Er, do you think that's the best idea?"

Crowley shrugged, "Better with me than alone."

"Hmm…well, I suspect you're right about that. Nothing to be done about it, I suppose. Where's Anathema?"

Crowley waved vaguely toward the back of the complex, "Off doing whatever her precious book tells her to, I imagine."

"Odd, she said we'd meet again."

Crowley shrugged, "Then we probably will."

"Pardon the interruption," said the woman's voice, "But do you think we might want to do something about that?"

She pointed in the direction of the group of children. Crowley had been wondering which was the One. He'd assumed it must be the boy who appeared to be holding court as the other three looked on in rapt, concerned attention. Now that assumption was confirmed, as said boy was hovering several feet off the ground and giving off a decidedly malicious vibe.

The other children were yelling at him, part anger, part horror. A small dog yapped and ran in circles beneath him. Crowley looked closer at the dog. _Well I'll be blessed_ , he thought, _The angel really wasn't kidding about the hellhound, was he?_

The angel/woman rushed toward the children, and the old man tottered behind.

"Stay behind me, stay close to me," Crowley said to Warlock, and followed them.

"Adam, stop this!" the angel cried as they approached. The boy turned and looked at him.

"…Mr. ###?"2

Everything about Adam changed. He sank to the ground, his eyes shifting from demonic rage to innocent surprise. The energy around him changed from evil to a sort-of neutral, though its strength didn't dissipate in the slightest. The dog stopped barking and wagged his tail. The other three children heaved sighs of relief.

"Mr. ####, why are you inside that lady?"

"Oh," said the angel, "Er…"

Adam shook his head, "That's not right! Come out of there, you mustn't be two people."

And just like that, the angel was standing beside the woman, in a brand-new corporation. They both shuddered a bit at the transition, then exchanged polite nods. The old man gave a surprised shout.

"Witchcraft!"

"Yes, Mr. Shadwell," said the woman patiently, as she pulled him aside, "Something of the like. That's what we've been trying to tell you."

The angel checked the backs of his hands and smiled wide, "Oh thank H- thank the Lord," he said to himself, "Still gone."

And indeed, Crowley couldn't see a single glowing sigil on the angel's skin. The angel snapped his fingers, apparently testing his newfound freedom. The change likely wasn't apparent to anyone who didn't know what was happening, but Crowley noticed immediately and smiled; the angel was now wearing cufflinks. _The_ cufflinks. The angel smiled at them, then at Crowley, who suddenly felt significantly meeker and less certain of himself than he had a moment earlier.

"…Hi angel," he said bashfully, resisting the urge to throw his arms around him. The angel looked much the same.

"Hello my dear," he said, taking Crowley's hand and squeezing.

* * *

Aziraphale turned to Adam, feeling bolstered by his new freedom, and the weight of the Serpent's hand in his.

"Adam, I can't pretend to understand what you're going through right now, but I know you. And those bad feelings inside you _aren't_ you. They're not who you are, not really. You're _much better_ than that."

Adam looked at the ground, stamped at it with his toe, "I suppose…"

"Mr. Fell's right," Brian said, "You're great! You're nice, and friendly and kind to everybody, and you've never wanted to hurt anyone before, not ever."

"I quite agree, actually," said Wensleydale, "You're just about the best person I know, really."

"You're the only boy worth listening to in the whole world," said Pepper, before glancing apologetically at her friends, "No offense."

"But," Adam said, "if all that's true then how come I keep thinking like I want to destroy everything?"

"Because," said a new voice from behind him, seductive and sharp, "None of this lot knows you like _we_ do. We know who you _truly_ are, Prince of This World."

The voice came from a woman-shaped creature Aziraphale didn't recognize, though he knew just who she was. It was obvious - she was holding his sword.

* * *

1\. When he thought about it, he wouldn't trade places with the witch for anything. It was miserable enough trying to live up to the vague, ever-changing expectations that came along with being an occult entity. Trying to live up to a specific, pre-destined ideal set down by some ancient authority who couldn't possibly understand what life would be like several generations down the line must be close to downright unbearable.[Back]

2\. Well, that confirmed his earlier suspicion - whatever the boy had called the angel, Crowley hadn't understood a syllable. He couldn't even guess how many syllables there _were_. [Back]

* * *

#### Tadfield Airbase, 5 Minutes Later

The Horsepersons were gone, destroyed at the hands of the Them as the others looked on in shock. After a few moments of stunned silence, Warlock stepped cautiously out from behind his protector and, seeing no more monsters to jump out at him, rushed toward the other children.

"That was _so cool!_ The sword was all, 'foosh' and you guys were all, 'I believe in peace, bitch!' and then you totally _obliterated_ those…things, monsters or whatever!"3

Adam shrugged nonchalantly, "It needed doing. Hi, I'm Adam."

"Warlock."

The two shook hands. Adam gave a small double-take before he let go.

"Oh! It's you!"

Warlock gave him a wary frown, "What's me?"

"I remember you! You were the other baby, you were in the next bassinet along when I arrived. We were at Tadfield Manor together!"

"…Wait, you were born at Tadfield Manor too?"

"Um, sort-of? I mean, I thought I was, but today I remembered something different."

"You remember being _born?_ "

"…A bit?" Adam shook his head, "It's not important. Come and meet my friends!"

* * *

Aziraphale knelt and picked up the discarded sword. The feel of it was strange in his hand, familiar and unfamiliar at once, not quite unlike the feeling of holding the Serpent's hand. He turned the weapon over, inspected it.

"Bit less intimidating when it's not aflame, isn't it?" said the Serpent.

"Mm. Really, I always meant to do something with the hilt, but I never got around to it."

"Ah, yeah…Sorry, you what?"

"Oh," Aziraphale blushed a little, "This sword. It er…it's mine. Or it was, back at the Beginning."

The demon raised an eyebrow, " _War's_ sword?"

"Well, not when it was issued. It is a bit ironic, isn't it, the living symbol of humanity's violent nature weilding a holy sword?"

"All that 'getting to know you' yesterday, and you never thought to mention you had a _holy sword?_ "

Aziraphale cringed, "Well, I don't really like to talk about it. I haven't seen it since Eden. Bit of a stain on my record, really."

The demon nodded sagely, "Stolen, was it? I wondered how War got her hands on it."

"Ah…no. No, when the humans were expelled from Paradise, I ah…I gave it away."

"You _what?_ "

* * *

Anathema and Newt, successful in their utter dismantling of the airbase's entire computer network, joined the others outside.

"Tha's a live one there, lad!" Shadwell shouted as they approached, shaking an accusatory finger at Anathema, "I kennit from the looks of 'er. Have ye apprehended 'er, then? D'ya need any kindlin'?"

Newt opened his mouth to answer, when Anathema stepped forward.

"Hiya, Sergeant!" she said, in a particularly distinct American accent, grin nearly wider than her face.

Shadwell stared at her, gobsmacked, his wagging finger stilled.

"I feel like we might have some stuff to talk about," Anathema said, in something much closer to her normal voice, as she took him aside. Newt and Madame Tracy shared knowing smiles and followed.

* * *

Beelzebub rose from the earth, the dissipating tension in the air returning at full-force. Crowley shuddered and instinctively looked for Warlock, who was only a few feet in front of him, chatting with Adam and his friends. He was fine for now, and Crowley trusted the pendant to keep him that way, but he still felt better with an eye on him. Beelzebub glared meaningfully in Adam's direction and headed that way. The boy seemed to sense their arrival and turned to face them as they approached. He stepped forward, a barrier between Beelzebub and the other children.

"What have you done?" Beelzebub demanded, "Where are the Horzepersonz? Return them this inztant!"

"Why?" Adam said, entirely unfazed.

"WHY? Becauze it izz your DEZTINY! You MUZT!"

Adam shook his head, "That's not even a proper answer. I asked _why?_ "

"The Earth muzzt be dezztroyed! The War muzzzt begin! It izzzzz written!!"

" _Where's_ it written?"

"Ha!" Crowley couldn't help himself, it was too good, "I like this kid, angel."

Beelzebub looked up and recognized the angel and demon standing before them. Their already angry face became angrier.

"You shut your filthy mouth, traitor! I'll deal with _you_ in a moment! Rezt azzured I _will_ make you pay for your crimez!"

"I would _love_ to see you try." Crowley's grin was also a bit of a sneer, "How _are_ Hastur and Ligur, by the way? Heard they had a bit of…difficulty apprehending a fugitive. Bit of a shame, really. I doubt they'll be in top fighting form anytime soon, I hear body-fab's waitlisted at least fifty years or so."

The buzz of flies grew intensely loud. Beelzebub was suddenly much less human-looking than they'd been a moment before. Crowley narrowed his eyes, but stood his ground. He began quietly calculating what it would take to get Warlock as far away from the fray as possible if a skirmish began.

A lightning strike interrupted the standoff, and an angel Crowley distantly recognized as the Archangel Gabriel joined Beelzebub, seemingly unsure of who to glare at first.

* * *

"What in the Lord's name is going on here?"

 _Very little_ , Aziraphale thought, a watchful eye trained onto the Archangel, _Though you might claim otherwise._

"The brat boy and his brat friendz deztroyed the Horzepersonz!" Beelzebub said, incredulous, glaring at Adam once again.

Gabriel rolled his eyes and put on a sickeningly fake smile. He crouched to Adam's eye-level, in a way that was much more condescending than considerate.

"Hey, kiddo, I'm gonna' need you to bring them on back and get things going again. It's for the Greater Good, you understand."

Adam wrinkled his nose, "War's never good."

"Well, but see, this is all according to the Great Plan-"

"It iz written!!"

Gabriel jerked a thumb at Beelzebub, "Right, yeah, what they said. This is what your Lord commands of you, don't you want the Forces of Good to triumph?"

"Triumph over _what?_ " Adam wasn't hiding his disdain, "If you lot get your way, we'll all be _dead_. You don't care about humans, you just want to fight your stupid war on _our_ planet and use _our_ souls as your stupid trophies. And I'm not gonna' let you. If you were _really_ good, you wouldn't want to kill anybody, anyway."

Aziraphale beamed. He'd never been more proud of his godson.

"Look kid, that's not how this works, okay? The Great Plan is bigger than all of us, it's…well, it's the Great Plan! It's not for us to question the Lord's Will."

"…But is it?" Aziraphale was somewhat startled to hear himself say.

Gabriel straightened and looked at him as though only just now acknowledging his presence.

"… _What_ did you say?"

"Well, I mean, is the Great Plan indeed the Lord's Will? I'm somewhat unconvinced on that point, really. After all, it's not altogether clear whether the Great Plan is also the _ineffable_ one, wouldn't you say?"

Gabriel wrinkled his nose, "No. No, I wouldn't say that, and neither should you. Of course it's ineffable, it's…" he gestured vaguely at nothing, "Well- It's got to be the same- I mean, it's probably…ah…"

He trailed off, seemingly trying to craft an argument, and failing. The Serpent stepped forward, his grin somewhere between glee and spite.

"The angel brings up an interesting point, doesn't he? How d'you _know_ they're one and the same? The Lord works in _mysterious ways_ ," he waggled his fingers, "Doesn't She?"

Gabriel reddened, " _You_ have no right to speak of the Lord's Works, _demon_. You know _nothing_ of the Almighty-"

"Oh, don't I? I should think that being a direct recipient of her _oh so mysterious works_ would make me somewhat of an expert! After all, a demon learns firsthand that what the Almighty _says_ and what She _does_ aren't necessarily in accord, don't we, Beezie?"

Beelzebub buzzed aggressively and bared their elongating fangs at the Serpent, but said nothing.

"I won't stand for this _blasphemy_ ," Gabriel was crimson with rage, "Any of it! I'm taking this up with Head Office!" He pointed an accusatory finger at Adam, "You're in big trouble, young man! Just wait until your Father hears about this!"

"Not to worry," Beelzebub growled, "I'll deliver the message _personally_."

Gabriel gave Beelzebub an approving nod, "Good! In the meantime, I'm taking care of this whole," he waved dismissively at Aziraphale and the Serpent, "Situation. Aziraphale, get over here, we're leaving."

" _I beg your pardon?_ " Aziraphale stayed put. Even with everything he'd learned, he was shocked at the frank callousness Gabriel was displaying, speaking to him with the exact condescending, dismissive tone he'd used on Adam, as though Aziraphale were some wayward child. And in public no less. It was humiliating - and infuriating.

"Yeah, you ran out of pardons a while ago, bud. I'm taking you into custody. Come on, get away from that demon, we're going home."

"That's a good point," growled Beelzebub, "Az long az I'm headed back down, I'll take the traitor in az well."

The Archangel and the Prince of Hell both advanced on their subordinates. Aziraphale felt the weight of the sword in his hand, the sturdy assurance of its hilt. Almost out of instinct he stepped forward, the still-lowered blade beginning to flicker.

"We're not going anywhere," he said simply, with a quiet confidence.

Gabriel raised an amused eyebrow, though Aziraphale noticed both he and Beelzebub stopped advancing.

"Really? This is how you're going to play it? You know I can just call in reinforcements, right? Aziraphale, buddy, I'm trying not to embarrass you here. No reason to make a scene."

"You're _trying_ to behave as though you have any Right to order me about at all. You haven't."

Gabriel gave him an incredulous, amused look, "And how's that?"

Aziraphale raised the sword, not a threat, but a defense. The blade burst into flame, first orange, then blue, then lightning white. He began to glow a similar color at his edges. Behind him, he felt the Serpent move to a safer distance. His wings manifested unbidden, stretching proudly behind him, emitting more Holy light.

"I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate," intoned the Principality Aziraphale, in a voice that made the humans' teeth hurt, "And my Sword Defends the Outcast and the Misfit, the Pariah and the Castaway, the Wrongfully Maligned and the Unjustifiably Exiled. I am He Who Shields Those Unjustly Rejected. You, who have failed to show Compassion to every living being as your Lord commands, you who Betray those whom you have Pledged to Protect, you who in your Pride have cast aside your own Brethren in Defiance of your Lord, shall leave this place at once, or feel the Wrath of my Sword! Do you understand me, _Archangel?_ "4

Beelzebub shrank away from the growing Righteous glow, and although Gabriel sneered at him, he took several measured, even steps backward. Adam, on the other hand, stepped forward, seeming a bit taller than he had a moment ago.

"You heard Mr. Fell," Adam said confidently, but casually, as though it was not at all strange that Aziraphale was currently doing his best impression of a terrifyingly powerful, winged lightbulb, "Go away. And don't come back, you're not welcome here."

"…How are you _doing_ this?" Gabriel said in sudden realization, gesturing to the golden feathers still laced through the Principality's wings, "You've been _Bound_!"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, "Have I?"

And with a thought, the last of the Bindings, forced upon him by beings without True Authority over him, faded as if they'd never been there at all.

Gabriel's angry expression gained a bit of fear then, though he hid it well. He pointed threateningly at Aziraphale, "This isn't over. You have transgressed against Heaven and the Lord Your God and you _will_ be held accountable for your sins!"

Aziraphale looked back at him, impassive, through blank, glowing eyes. He nodded once.

"Indeed. We shall Each see the Lord's Judgement, in Time."

Gabriel went pale, and took a few more steps backward. He and Beelzebub glanced at each other in some kind of silent understanding, then they both vanished.

* * *

Crowley stared at the angel, very impressed, a little frightened, and more than a little turned-on.

 _That's my boyfriend_ , he thought. He'd meant it as a little joke to himself, but after he thought it, he quite liked the warm pride that accompanied the thought. He found himself hoping it was true.

The angel's wings folded behind him and disappeared. He stopped glowing and lowered his sword. He looked around, humble once more, and a bit sheepish.

"Ah, sorry about that, everyone," he said to the astonished crowd of humans, "Quite forgot myself for a moment there. Mustn't allow my temper to get the better of me."

Crowley returned to his side and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's quite the party trick, angel."

The angel blushed. "I'm sorry, really, I didn't intend…Are you alright? Nothing singed, I hope?"

Crowley grinned at him and shook his head. The angel gave him a sweet, grateful smile. The ground began to shake.

Crowley fell to his knees, to his stomach, flattened by the sheer gravity of the Being clawing its way to the surface. He could feel its Presence, its overwhelming Might pulling at his soul.

Satan. Not Lucifer. _Satan._

"Nanny?!"

Warlock was beside him in seconds. Crowley forced himself up to his knees, clutched the frightened boy to him.

"Listen to me, my darling, you've got to run. Get to the car, you'll be safer there, you mustn't-"

"No! I wanna' stay with you!"

"I'm sorry, my love, I'm sorry for everything, but I can't protect you from what's coming, not from Him. Don't you worry about me, just go-"

"NO!"

"What's happening?" Adam shouted, and the angel answered.

"Ah…it appears Beelzebub has made good on their threat to inform your Father."

"My _dad's_ caused an _earthquake?_ "

"No, my dear. I'm afraid not."

Crowley watched the wheels turn in Adam's mind, watched him come to at least a rudimentary understanding of what was really happening. It was a sad thing, watching a bit of innocence drain from a child's face - even if that child was the Antichrist.

"What do I do?" The boy looked to the angel for answers, but the angel gave a helpless shrug.

"I'm truly sorry, my dear, but I haven't a clue."

Crowley took stock of the scene, took in Adam's uncertainty, the angel's resigned sadness, Warlock's desperate devotion, the fear and panic of the humans around them.

 _We need more time_ , he thought. And he knew if he wanted any, he'd have to make some.

So he did.

* * *

#### The Firmament, Frozen in Time

Adam stood between Mr. Fell and the stranger, the one who had just stopped time as if it were a moderately difficult, but perfectly achievable thing to do. He looked closely at the two of them. He could see each of their wings now, huge and beautiful. Earlier, he'd realized that he'd been seeing Mr. Fell's wings for years, he just didn't know how to understand them as such until they'd physically manifested before his eyes. Mr. Fell looked so different now that Adam couldn't see the glowing, golden marks that had always etched his skin. It seemed to him that Mr. Fell was happier without them, so he was glad to see them gone. The stranger was very like Mr. Fell in many ways, but different in some significant others. Where Mr. Fell's aura seemed to gravitate upwards, the stranger's pulled down. The stranger reminded him of a place long-forgotten, nestled into the back of his mind. He thought maybe he understood what all this meant, what Mr. Fell and the stranger really were, though the only words he could think of to describe any of it sounded a bit silly and overly-dramatic in his head.

Then he noticed something odd about them, something he couldn't quite understand. Though he was able to see and understand so much more of the world than he ever had before, the new senses he'd gained over the past week still took some getting used to. It was like discovering several new, previously unheard-of colors; he had no vocabulary for the things he now experienced. But he took notice of the oddness all the same, resolved to try and understand it. It felt important.

Mr. Fell smiled warmly at the stranger. "Thank you, Serpent. That was very clever of you."

The stranger shrugged, "Split-second decision, really." He smiled back at Mr. Fell, and the look that passed between them was a strange combination of deep affection and deep sadness. Adam wondered how they knew each other. He was sure he'd never seen the stranger before, though something about him seemed vaguely familiar. But he was even more certain that he'd never in his life seen Mr. Fell look at anyone the way he was looking at the person he'd called Serpent. Adam wondered why Mr. Fell called him that, but then he shifted his focus slightly, and the reason became instantly apparent.

Mr. Fell turned to him, "Adam, my dear, I know it's unfair to put such a burden on you. But I'm afraid that The Devil Himself is quite angry that you've stopped the War, and now he's on his way up. He will destroy the entire Earth unless he's stopped, and you are the only one who can stop him."

"But how?"

"We can't answer that for you," the Serpent said, serious but kind, "No one can, only you."

Adam thought seriously about this. "But why'd you say the Devil's my dad?"

Mr. Fell shook his head, "I didn't mean your Earthly father. I meant the One who Created you."

Adam knew where he'd really come from, in a vague understanding that he didn't want to examine too closely. He'd told that boy, Warlock, that he was "sort-of" born at Tadfield Manor, but he had only half a notion of what that really meant. Now, he thought he understood what Mr. Fell was dancing around telling him, and he really didn't like it. It made him feel awful, in fact. But it didn't matter, really - he wasn't going to allow a War, and he wasn't going to allow some musty old Devil to come 'round pretending to be his father, either. He already had a perfectly good one.

"I can't keep this up for long," the Serpent said, gesturing to the Endless Space around them, the lack of Time, "You need a plan."

Adam nodded, "I think I know what to do. Maybe. I'll try my best."

"That's all we could ever ask of you," said Mr. Fell, "And whatever you do, we'll be with you."

Adam took his place between the two of them and reached for Mr. Fell's hand; his godfather took it gladly. Adam looked up at the Serpent and reached out his other hand. The Serpent looked surprised for a moment, then took it with a sad smile. Adam smiled at them both. It felt right to have them next to him, and to be a bridge between them.

"Here we go," said the Serpent, and then Time began to Flow.

* * *

#### Tadfield Airbase, 2 Minutes Later

Satan dissipated into a dark cloud, out of which drove a car, which came to a stop. Mr. Young rushed out, calling for his son. When he caught sight of him, and the nearby familiar face, he sighed in something resembling relief.

"Ezra," he said, "Perhaps you can tell me what the devil's going on here?"

"It's quite a long story, I'm afraid, Arthur. But it's well under-control now, nothing to worry about."

"Hmph. Well, it's high time I got Adam home, I know that much. You can fill me in later. Come on, then, boy."

"Hang on, dad," Adam said. He'd turned away from his father, and was now concentrating hard on the angel and the demon, "Wait, please?"

Arthur scowled, "Adam…"

" _Please_ , dad? It's _important_! I only need a few more minutes, I promise!"

Arthur huffed, "You'll be in that car in the next _five_ minutes, or so help me I will carry you to it, you hear me young man? I may not know what's going on, but I _do_ know you lot gave Mr. Tyler quite a start earlier, and he's _very_ cross!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I'll only be a moment, I swear."

He hadn't stopped looking at the two beings the entire time he pleaded with his father. Arthur grumbled, but he headed back to the car to wait for him. He wasn't an unfair or unreasonable man, and Adam rarely argued so passionately, certainly not when he was already in trouble. Whatever it was, Adam thought it was worth arguing over, and Arthur respected that level of conviction.

Adam stared at the two of them for a long, long time, brow furrowed, as though he were working out a puzzle. Then he smiled.

"Of _course_! Mr. Fell, I figured it out!"

"What's that, my dear?"

"The reason you're sad all the time! I can _see_ it! There's a bunch of you _missing_! Before, you always just looked like you, but now I can see where you're all broken-up! There's all sorts of thoughts and memories and such that you're supposed to have that you haven't."

"Er-"

Adam pointed at the demon, "And he's like you! He's got a bunch of him missing, too! He's missing way more than you, though. But a bunch of it…a bunch of the missing bits match up. That's not _quite_ right, but I don't know how else to put it. It's like you're supposed to fit together, but you don't. Why're you like that? What happened to you?"

The two looked uncomfortable and said nothing. Adam waved his own question away.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter because I can set it right! I can see where stuff's meant to be! I can _fix_ it!"

The two shared a wary glance, and looked back at the boy, who beamed excitedly at them.

"Adam-"

"No, I mean it, I can match up the bits that are supposed to fit, mend them back together. I can do it, it wouldn't even be hard! I want to help! Do you want me to fix it?"

"Yes," the demon didn't hesitate, "Absolutely, yes."

The angel took the demon's hand and gave him a sympathetic smile. Then he smiled warmly, but cautiously, at Adam.

"Just what _can_ you 'see', exactly? I'm afraid neither of us has lived the most…child-friendly life. I don't want to unintentionally expose you to anything…untoward."

Adam laughed and made a face somewhere between amusement and disgust, "Ew, no! Don't worry about _that_ , I'm not reading your minds or anything. It's more like…I don't know how to explain it. …I can tell that you're supposed to be a certain way, the real you I mean, the one inside you. Your soul, I guess? And it _isn't_ the way it's supposed to be. It's like it's all full of holes? And I can see the ways it's broken. It's like…like when you break a glass, and you can still see how all the shards fit together, and if you arrange them just-so you can still see the shapes of the pieces you can't find."

The demon cocked his head, and the angel's smile gained a tinge of confusion. Adam shrugged.

"Sort-of, I guess. I know it's not actually like that at all."

The angel's smile warmed, "That's all right, my dear. I think I understand well-enough. It's not easy to put these sort of things into words. But if you say you won't be subject to our actual memories, I believe you. And in that case, if it wouldn't be a bother to you, I do believe we'd quite appreciate your help."

Adam smiled again, but then his expression turned grave.

"…But there's bits that _don't_ match up, too. For both of you. And I don't know if I can get them back. Without anything to measure them against, it's harder to…see the shape of them? I dunno, I'm sorry. I can try."

"Anything," said the demon, close to tears, "Anything. _Please._ "

Adam nodded and gave them each a determined smile. And as he closed his eyes, something began to Happen.

* * *

It was subtle at first, a little tickle at the back of their minds, the feeling of remembering something forgotten, more than the actual remembering. But once it began, the rush of memories gained strength and speed. Soon it was washing over them in waves, overwhelming them. They fell to their knees in shock and pain. It hurt, this onslaught of remembrance, this mending of their wounded selves.

Six thousand years, restored to its proper context, given its proper weight. A surprisingly congenial meeting at the Beginning of Time. The awkward hesitancy of new friendship. The Arrangement. The growth of their bond. Centuries of longing, heartache, friendship, companionship, love. So much love, torn so violently apart. Such unimaginable torment, losing each other, losing themselves. 80 years of wandering, two lost, broken souls desperate to reconnect to the pieces of themselves they'd exchanged over so many intimate years.

And all at once it was over, and they knelt on the pavement, gasping. It took a long moment to recover from the shock of the recall, the immensity of it.

Each of them slowly stood. Each lifted his head and saw the other, their faces laden with horror, and grief, and sorrow, and wonder, and awe.

* * *

"… _Aziraphale_ …?" Crowley whispered, and in a moment his angel was in his arms. They held each other tight, each truly knowing the other for the first time since their parting. They wept, completely oblivious to the crowd of humans around them. For a few minutes, there was no world outside of themselves, nothing else in the entire Universe, only them, only each other.

"Crowley! Oh my darling, oh Crowley, _Crowley_!"

Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, whispering his name in a reverent mantra, losing himself in the sound of it, the feel of it over his tongue. The chant shifted, became a string of apologies, pleas for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry Aziraphale, I'm so sorry, it was my fault," Crowley whispered, "I'm so sorry my angel, I'm so sorry I let them do this to you-"

Aziraphale shook his head fervently, "It was _not_ your fault, not one bit of it, don't _ever_ blame yourself, it wasn't your doing. I'm the one who should apologize, I turned you away so many times-"

"No, angel, you couldn't know, it's all right, you were doing what you thought was best."

"…You came back to me. Again and again, you came back to me, and neither of us even understood…oh _Crowley_."

"Shhh, I know love, I know. Never mind, it's over now. I'm here, and you're here, and it's over."

They clung together, as if each were attempting to shield the other from the waves of anguish and relief engulfing them both in equal measure.

* * *

Warlock sidled over to Adam, who was proudly observing the results of his successful experiment.

"Hey," he hissed, "What did you _do?_ Are they okay?"

Adam nodded, "It's fine. They missed each other loads, is all. They've known each other forever, but they forgot. I helped them remember."

"You reminded them that they knew each other and then _that_ happened?"

Adam thought a moment, then shook his head, "You're right, it's not that simple. There were a _lot_ of memories to fix. When I say forever, I mean, like, _literally forever_. There was probably a few thousand years' worth?" He ignored Warlock's skeptical look, "And I don't know what the memories _were_ exactly, but I could tell how they felt about them, and…" he frowned, "I think somebody _made_ them forget each other. And then tried to keep them apart for a really long time. And then a lot of really bad stuff happened to them. Like, a _lot_ of _really_ bad stuff. They've been really, _really_ sad for a _really_ long time. But they've got each other back now, so it's better."

Warlock eyed him warily, "I guess. If I find out you did anything to hurt my Nanny-"

Adam shook his head and smiled reassuringly, "You don't have to worry, I wouldn't hurt him. I don't like hurting people. And anyway, Mr. Fell loves him, and I love Mr. Fell. I wouldn't ever hurt somebody he loves, not if I could help it."

Warlock pondered this as he watched their endless, desperate embrace, faintly heard them whispering reassurances to each other though tears and gasps. He'd never seen Nanny cry like this, not once in his life. He knew she cried sometimes, that was normal. She'd get choked up when she was feeling sentimental about something, and on one memorable, uncomfortable occasion several years ago, he'd snuck down to her room in the middle of the night and stopped short of the door when he heard a soft keening coming from the other side. But this was way, _way_ beyond anything he could have imagined from her, and seeing her like this tied his stomach into knots. It seemed like something she probably wouldn't want him to see, and he felt wrong for looking.

"…They don't _seem_ okay. Are you sure you really helped?"

"I'm sure. It's just hard to tell right now. I don't think _all_ of it's the sad sort of crying. They're really happy too, I can tell. It'll all work out in the end, I reckon."

His father's horn beeped a short blast and Adam waved at the car.

"I gotta' go. But I'm glad I met you again. Do you want to come over and go on adventures with us sometime?"

Warlock shrugged, and Adam smiled.

"My number's in your phone. Text me, okay?"

Warlock jumped a little, pulled his phone from his pocket, and marvelled at the new entry in his contact list.

"Um…Yeah, okay. Maybe."

Adam clapped him on the shoulder, waved to his other friends, and headed for the car, Dog trotting dutifully behind him.

"Bye!"

Warlock watched him go, then joined the other children, a good distance away from his still-crying Nanny and her new/old companion.

* * *

The three remaining Them were re-enacting their triumph for Anathema and Newt, with Warlock standing in for each Horseperson in turn.

"Ha HA!" declared Warlock, theatrically, "I'm Famine! I'm gonna' kill all your food and make you starve!"

"Not so fast!" said Brian, somewhat recklessly brandishing the sword Aziraphale had dropped in the shock of remembering, "Because um, I'm Brian and…and I believe in a sensible breakfast, and-"

"That's _not_ what you said," Pepper complained, rolling her eyes, "You're as bad as Wensleydale!"

"I remembered mine correctly, actually."

"That's not the _point_! You have to put some _drama_ into it! How else are they going to know how dramatic it was?"

"I was pretty close," Brian protested, "Oh, hi Mr. Fell!"

He waved, and the others turned to see Crowley and Aziraphale approaching with embarrassed, apologetic expressions. For a long moment, everyone stood around and looked at each other, in quiet understanding that something Big and Important and Mysterious had happened to the two, and that this event, however unfortunately public, was also clearly Nobody's Business, and that this event had occurred on the heels of A Very Important Thing Indeed, and no one felt particularly eager to address any of it.

Then Warlock rushed Crowley for a massive hug, and Crowley hugged back, and the tension drained from the assembled crowd. The Them returned to their historical re-enactment of twenty minutes ago, recruiting Newt to be the new stand-in for the Horsepersons, despite his half-hearted protests. Anathema laughed and encouraged him. Shadwell and Madame Tracy gave Aziraphale and Crowley polite nods, donned their helmets and prepared for the long trek back to London.

When Warlock finally stopped squeezing, Crowley stepped back and smiled.

"You two didn't get a proper introduction earlier," he said, "Aziraphale, this is Warlock. He's the human I love most in the world. Warlock, this is Aziraphale, he's the non-human I love most in the world."

Warlock appraised Aziraphale suspiciously, then shrugged.

"Guess that explains the wings."

A phone ringtone startled the three of them. Warlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen, and answered it immediately.

"Mom!! …Yeah, I'm okay…yeah, I know…I _know_ , I didn't _mean_ to! …I _did_ text you, like a _million times_ …yeah I _did_ , I can _show_ you…Mom…Mom, _stop_ , I'm okay! …I don't know. …I don't know, it's not like I walked here! …It's fine, I'm with Nanny…yeah…okay." He held the phone out to Crowley, "She wants to talk to you."

Crowley took the phone and walked off, speaking in the most soothing and confident 'Nanny Ashtoreth' voice he could. Warlock looked up at Aziraphale, studied him a bit more.

"So, if you're not human, are you like a bird-person or something?"

"Ah, er- Well, I suppose after all that, the cat's rather out of the bag, isn't it? I'm an angel, my dear."

"Like an _angel_ , angel?"

Aziraphale nodded. Warlock thought, then narrowed his eyes, "Nanny's not human either, is she?"

Aziraphale gave a non-committal shrug.

"Wait, is _Nanny_ an angel?"

"Ah…I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, my dear. You'll have to ask him. As it is, I'm not entirely sure how comfortable he'll be with what you already know."

"I can't tell if that's a yes or a no."

Aziraphale shrugged and said nothing.

"She's not human," he said decisively, "But I kinda' guessed that a while ago, to be honest. I bet she's not an angel, though. She's way too goth to be an angel."

Aziraphale smirked at that, but kept quiet. Crowley hung up, came back, and handed Warlock his phone. Warlock gave him a worried frown.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Not to worry, I took care of it. Your parents are under the impression that I've valiantly rescued you from clever kidnappers, so keep that in mind if they ask you anything about it. They're taking the first flight back they can find. They'll be home late tonight, so you'll stay with me for now, and I'll take you home tomorrow."

"…Do you have to?"

"Yes, my darling, I'm afraid I do. Meantime, I'm willing to bet you're well-past ready for supper."

Warlock shrugged, "I could eat."

"So could I," said Aziraphale, "Why don't I whip something up? You could stay after, if you'd like. There's a comfortable bed in the guest room."

Crowley raised his eyebrows, "You have a guest room?"

Aziraphale shrugged, "I do now."

"Huh. Well then…lift home?"

Crowley offered one arm to his angel, the other hand to his ward, and once both took hold, he sauntered casually toward his car.

They nearly drove off without retrieving Aziraphale's sword and the other Horsepersons' totems, but Aziraphale remembered just in time. One quick jaunt back to the crowd of assembled humans later, they were off.

Crowley drove with his usual, casual flair, ostensibly cool and collected. The entire way back, he drove with one hand, the other clutching Aziraphale's with a grip that would have shattered a human's hand to bits.

* * *

#### Lower Tadfield, 2 Hours Later

Crowley sent Warlock to bed after the boy's third yawn, despite his protests. He asked Crowley to tuck him in, something he hadn't had the slightest bit of interest in for years. Crowley sat beside him for a long while, gently stroking his back, soothing him to sleep, wondering whether this would truly be the last time he would put his little boy to bed. Only four days ago, he'd been sure he wouldn't ever see him again, but now he wasn't sure of anything. Now everything was different. The entire world was New.

After he was sure Warlock was asleep, Crowley quietly snuck away. He found Aziraphale still at the kitchen table, staring at the window and looking pale.

"What's out there, angel?"

Aziraphale jumped, and Crowley felt guilty for startling him.

"Oh…nothing. Not even looking, really. Just…thinking."

"Mmm."

Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, solid, comforting. Aziraphale reached up one hand to his. He was shaking.

"…I raised a sword to the Archangel Gabriel today," he said in something like wonder, and something like horror, "I gave him _orders_. That…that isn't _me_."

"It is," Crowley said, quiet and kind, "You'd forgotten, that's all."

Aziraphale shook his head, "I hadn't. Not really. I think all this time, a part of me remembered what it felt like to hold that sword. I don't think I realized just how much _resentment_ I've harbored toward them, Gabriel in-particular, millennia before any of this mess ever happened. I wasn't ashamed that I gave it to the humans, but…however much I knew I shouldn't, I missed it - the power, the prestige. I felt robbed of it, all this time, felt there was so much more Good I could have done if only…I don't know whether I truly regret giving it away, or only that the others were all too happy to shove me into guardianship with the _clear_ opinion that I'd been incorrectly stationed to begin with. That I'd never deserved what I had. …Perhaps I didn't."

Crowley felt like he should say something, but there weren't any words, in any language, that could possibly have approached even a small measure of the things he was thinking and feeling. It seemed Aziraphale was in a similar state. So instead he leaned in, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. He kissed Aziraphale's cheek and lay his head on his shoulder. They stayed that way, in silence, for a long time.

The doorbell rang, and they both jumped a mile. Crowley was instantly on guard, sniffing at the air, eyes darting. Aziraphale stood up slowly, in no hurry to make it to the door.

"It's not them," Crowley said, "Whoever it is. Unless they're trying to fool us."

Aziraphale nodded and left for the entryway. Crowley followed a short distance behind, still prowling for danger. He hovered in the kitchen doorway as Aziraphale took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Hello sir, terribly sorry to be a bother this late in the evening, but I've a priority pickup at this address?"

Crowley relaxed a little. It was only the International Express deliveryman. Everyone knew about him, he was one of the only truly Neutral beings in the whole of Creation, and he was both damn good at his job, and quite a nice fellow, if a bit chatty.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, visibly relieved, "Of course, one moment."

He gathered up the box with the Horsepersons' trinkets inside and handed it over. The deliveryman inspected the contents and double-checked his clipboard. He looked back at Aziraphale expectantly.

"There's meant to be a sword as well, sir."

"Ah, yes. About that. I'm happy to provide some sort of note of explanation, but…I'm afraid I don't plan on returning it."

"I see. Well, that's a problem there, sir. If I return to the depot one item short, it'll be me who answers for it, you see."

Aziraphale knew better than to ask who had ordered the pickup - he had several good guesses, and none of them were anything he wanted to confirm. But he also knew he had absolutely no intention of ever letting the sword go again.

"Now, I feel I must point out that the sword in question, while not _strictly_ mine at the moment, was in fact issued to me as a part of my requisite battle gear. It left my possession in a rather… _informal_ manner, and to my knowledge, new ownership has not, _strictly_ , been transferred."

"In the Service were you, sir?"

"Yes, I was a Lieutenant over a platoon in the 24398th Regiment. In fact, I was decorated for injury in the Battle at the Gates. I'm long since retired, but-"

"Oh yes, sir? The ol' 24-3-9-8? I've a mate was in that Regiment, sir. Guardian Omiri, lovely chap."

"Oh, do you? Then I'm sure you can understand what that sword means to me, as a veteran. It's quite a memorial of my service, I was simply overjoyed to see it returned to me. Isn't there anything you can do?"

The deliveryman thought a moment, then flipped through his clipboard and pulled out a sheet of paper.

"Ahh, here we are then, Reclamation Form. And filled out already, that's handy! Somebody Upstairs must be looking out for you, sir. If I could just have your signature there? Thank you sir, and initials there and here. All right then, that's sorted!" He slipped the paper back into his clipboard and smiled, "If I'm honest, sir, I'm relieved something's gone smoothly today. If I was to tell my wife what happened to me today, she wouldn't believe me. And I wouldn't blame her, because I don't either."

Aziraphale smiled a fleeting, pained smile, "I very much know the feeling."

"Well, everything's in order here. You have a good night sir."

"And a good night to you. Safe drive."

Aziraphale closed the door and sighed deeply. Crowley was still hovering in the doorway, and Aziraphale gave him a thin smile. Crowley didn't smile back.

"You're really going to keep it?"

"Of course I am."

"Ah, yeah, yeah, right. Of course you are."

He left the doorway and began pacing. Aziraphale watched him cautiously. It was clear he was upset, it just wasn't yet clear exactly what had prompted it.

"One question," Crowley stopped and turned on his heel, " _Why?_ "

"Well I…aside from the fact that it _is_ mine…I was thinking it might make for a good defense."

"Oh a defense? How long's it been since you've swung that thing, angel?" He was getting louder.

"I hardly think that-"

"Seems to me you're hardly _thinking_ at all!" Crowley seethed, "Just what are you planning to do? Storm the Gates? March straight down into Hell and give them a light show? _What?_ "

Aziraphale went very quiet and very still. He hadn't seen Crowley this angry in years, he hadn't even been this angry the day Aziraphale had stopped his suicide. And before they'd lost each other, Crowley hadn't ever directed such anger toward him. Not once. Crowley noticed his reaction and tried to reign himself in a bit, took a deep breath.

"Look, angel," he said, quieter and calmer, but with an uncomfortable edge, "We did the impossible out there today. We convinced the Antichrist to stand-down, we _stopped_ the Great War, and we did it without anyone getting hurt. I only _just_ got you back two, maybe three hours ago. And now I find you're keen to hold onto a weapon so powerful that _War herself_ chose it as her Symbol!"

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, "Are you suggesting I'm not capable-"

"No! No, of _course_ I'm not, and that's not even the fucking _point_!" He began pacing again, his volume rising once more, "There are _two_ of us! Two! Against _millions upon millions_ of them! You caught Gabriel by surprise today, but that trick's not going to work more than once, you must _know_ that!"

"It wasn't a _trick_ ," Aziraphale was near to pouting, "That sword is the only reason the two of us are not currently in custody. Without it, I don't stand a _chance_ against them, but with it…They _will_ come for us, Crowley, sooner or later. You know they will. They've had it out for us for _centuries_ and now, in the same day we worked to stop their ridiculous war, we've thwarted even their most desperate attempts to control us. They've almost certainly found out about us by now, and if they haven't yet, they will soon. And then Divine Right or no, Holy sword or no, they will be out for _blood_."

"And you'll be right there, front and center, ready to bleed for them, will you?"

Aziraphale stiffened, "If I have to."

"You _don't_. That's my entire point! Are you really so eager to jump into a fight with them?"

"No! Of course I'm not! But I'm not throwing away the best chance I have of protecting you!"

Crowley stopped pacing and stared at him, indignant, " _Me?_ That's not how this _works,_ angel. You don't protect me, _I_ protect _you_!"

Aziraphale crossed his arms, "…You know very well that's not true. We protect each other, always have."

"Sure, sometimes. Not always. Usually, you run off half-cocked and overly-sure of yourself, and you get yourself into trouble you can't get yourself out of, and then I come to rescue you. I'm not even complaining, that's how it's _supposed_ to go, how it's _always_ done! Only I _can't_ this time, don't you understand? Sword or no sword, you are out of your fucking _mind_ if you think you're going to stand up to the combined forces of Heaven and Hell alone! And if you get into trouble this time, there's _nothing_ I can do about it. I haven't even _got_ a sword, have I?"

"Well what do you suggest, exactly?"

"I don't know! I'll think of something, _we'll_ think of something, but whatever it is, it does _not_ involve you charging into a battle you can't win!"

"I don't intend to do any _charging._ But I'm telling you, that sword is our lifeline. It's the best chance we have. I thought you'd understand! You certainly sounded like you did before! Were you only telling me what you thought I wanted to hear? Do you not _believe_ me? Or do you honestly think I'm so incompetent-"

Crowley growled and stuck his hands in his hair, "I _never said that_ -"

He turned around and froze. The guest room door was open a bit. A young, frightened face peered out from the crack.

Crowley stood frozen a few seconds longer, and then suddenly he wasn't standing at all. He was shifting, and then he was slithering, and then he was in a close, dark cave where nothing and no-one could bother him.

* * *

Aziraphale sighed, collected himself a moment, then knelt by the sofa. He looked under it.

"Really, Crowley, do you honestly believe this solves _anything?_ "

"Yessss," came a hissing voice from beneath the sofa, "Ssssolves everything."

"Exactly what are you _doing_ under there?"

"Hiding."

"You most certainly are _not_ , my dear."

He reached a short way underneath the sofa to prove it. Crowley hissed at him.

"Ssstay back! I'm dangeroussss. Venomoussss fangsss, can't be trussssted!"

Aziraphale pulled his hand away and rolled his eyes, "Don't be ridiculous, Crowley, I know you aren't going to bite me."

"I might!"

"You won't. Now come out of there so we can have a proper conversation."

"No. 'Ssss better in here. You come in here."

Aziraphale threw up his hands, "Augh, you're _impossible_ to reason with when you're like this, do you know that?"

"Sssssnakes don't reasssson."

" _Precisely_ my point."

There was a long stretch of silence, and Aziraphale couldn't quite decide whether the situation was more aggravating or amusing. It had been several centuries since Crowley had panicked his way into serpent form and attempted an escape in the middle of an uncomfortable situation. Aziraphale was shocked that he hadn't seen him do it this past century, given the circumstances. But he really was quite difficult to manage in this state. He was _very_ irrational, for one thing, and he tended to conflate instinct with intellect, for another.5

Aziraphale put a hand back under the sofa, just at the edge, and tried to be patient. After a while, Crowley nudged his head against Aziraphale's hand, but still showed no sign of emerging from his 'cave'. 

"…Sssssorry, angel. I sssshouldn't have ssssaid thossse thingsss to you. I wasss sssstupid."

"I'm sorry as well, my dear, I truly am. But you really _must_ come out of there. Please?"

More silence. Aziraphale prayed for patience.

"Nanny?"

Aziraphale jumped, having forgotten that Warlock was even a factor in all this. The boy had left his room, and was now kneeling beside the startled angel, peering under the sofa. He lay on his belly and reached an arm underneath it.

"Be careful, my dear," Aziraphale said gently, "He really is a bit unpredictable when he's like this."

"It's fine. I don't think he'll bite me, either. Na- um…Crowley? It's just me, don't bite me, okay? Can you see me? I can see you."

Yet more silence.

"You can come out, it's okay. You don't have to be scared. Nobody's mad. Everything's okay, I promise. Come on."

Aziraphale didn't hold out much hope for this approach. But to his surprise, the boy was soon withdrawing his arm with Crowley wrapped around it. He snaked up the boy's arm and around his shoulders, in much the same way his astral form had done with Aziraphale's earlier that day.

"Ssssorry I sssshouted," Crowley said quietly after he'd settled, "Didn't mean to sssscare you."

Warlock shrugged, "It's okay. I think everybody's having a pretty hard day."

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at the child's usage of a phrase he'd almost certainly heard from adults more than once. He was impressed with the boy's handling of the situation. But it wasn't a surprise to him that Crowley had raised such a clever, kind young man. He always was the more maternal of the two, and definitely much better with children overall than Aziraphale had ever been.

Warlock ran a gentle hand along Crowley's scales. Crowley rested his head on the boy's shoulder.

"It's pretty awesome that you can turn into a snake. Can you teach me how to do it?"

"Humansss don't ssshapessshift. Only demonssss."

"You _are_ a demon! I knew it! Sort-of."

"My clever boy."

Aziraphale saw Crowley constrict, squeezing the boy a bit. Warlock blushed.

"Aw, Nanny, don't!"

The three sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Warlock broke it with a yawn.

"I'm gonna' go back to bed," he said to Crowley, "Do you wanna' change back yet? 'Cause if you don't, you can come sleep in my room, if you want."

The two looked over at Aziraphale for approval. Aziraphale smiled at them.

"Go on, get some rest, both of you."

Crowley stretched out toward Aziraphale, who pet the top of his head affectionately.

"I really am ssssory angel."

"I know. We can discuss it tomorrow. We have time, my love. At long last, we truly have time."

It's not possible for a snake to smile, but Crowley managed it anyway. Warlock smiled too.

"G'night Ari- Azra-"

"Aziraphale, dear. Mr. Fell is fine."

"Goodnight Mr. Fell."

"Goodnight my dears."

Aziraphale gave a little wave as Warlock disappeared back into the guest room. Crowley's tail made a little wave back just before the door closed. Aziraphale found that even with all the uncertainty and danger still hovering over him, the smile he wore was genuine. He had Crowley back. He had _himself_ back. And despite Crowley's initial anxious outburst over the concept, he was going to do everything in his newly recovered power to keep it that way.

This thought sobered him a bit and his smile fell. He found the sword and carried it back to the sofa. He picked up a book he'd only just begun when Crowley rang his doorbell yesterday afternoon. He sat down, lay the sword beside him, and opened the book. He stayed that way - reading, but not quite reading, every sense on high alert, keeping a watchful vigil - until dawn.

* * *

3\. Crowley was pleased to note that this was the most animated he'd seen Warlock since he reached a double-digit age. He was glad to see him behaving so well toward other children - his normal social circles tended to be largely ones of convenience, and their general attitudes toward each other fell somewhere between indifferent and cruel. How ironic that, given what the angel had told him about Adam, it might turn out the Antichrist was the most positive peer influence the child might get? [Back]

4\. Aziraphale wasn't grandstanding. Instinct had taken over entirely. He was tapping into a part of himself he'd forgotten was there, not out of any tampering with his memory, but out of simple disuse. Though honestly, now that he'd awakened this self, he found he liked it quite a bit. [Back]

5\. Snakes may be clever hunters, but even the special, demonic ones aren't exactly experts on critical-thought and problem-solving. [Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): Gaslighting, PTSD symptoms, hypervigilance, Trauma


	14. Interlude - The End of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is exactly as titled: a short interlude, rather than a full chapter. Mainly, I wanted to reassure my regular readers that I'm still working hard on this fic, and provide this finished scene to tide you over. 
> 
> But I also think presenting this scene as a stand-alone chapter adds something to its weight. Hopefully you'll agree. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for chapter-specific warning tags.

#### The Ethereal Plane

Lucifer stood in the doorway of His chambers, the ancient wooden arch towering over His already impressive height. The lift doors opened and Beelzebub stepped through, looking more irritated than He'd ever seen them before. Beelzebub stormed past Him and into the room beyond, which was a bit on the nose, frankly. It looked like a Gothic castle fit for Dracula, all thick stone and dark mahogany and rich, red velvet. Lucifer followed after them, eager and anxious all at once.

"Well?" He demanded, "What's the hold-up?"

"…He haz… _refuzzzzed_." They forced the words through clenched teeth, red-faced, one eye twitching.

Lucifer frowned, genuinely confused.

"I'm sorry, he _what_?"

Beelzebub could barely get the words out through their rage, "Your _Son_ …hazzzz _dezzztroyed_ the Horzepersonzzzz…and _zzzztopped_ the Great War. He hazzz allied himzzzelf with _the humanzzzz_ …and referred to both myzzelf _and_ the Archwanker Gabriel - _collectively -_ azz, 'you lot'. He hazz _no intention_ of fulfilling hizzz dezzzztiny."

Lucifer seethed, His fury rising as Beelzebub buzzed out their report.

"Defiance against his Creator," He muttered. "You know, that's rather disconcerting from the other side. Still, I suppose I can't fault him for the instinct. It's a demon's nature to rebel."

When He saw Beelzebub's expression change, He frowned even harder.

"What was that look?"

"My Lord…He appearzzz to have been _compromizzed_ by a perzzonal relationzzhip with the traitor Crowley'zz," they sneered and swallowed back disgust, "… _conzzzort_."

Lucifer glowered, and the glittering stone walls darkened to matte black.

"Get back up there," He said, now barely containing his own rage, "And bring the boy down here. NOW."

"…I'm truly sorry my Lord, but I _cannot_. He haz banished the both of uz, myzelf and Gabriel. I am not phyzzically able to get cloze to him, nor to that pathetic little hamlet he livez in. Believe me, I tried az zoon az he banished me."

Lucifer shouted wordless rage at the ceiling and tore a nearby tapestry off the wall. Then He reigned-in his tantrum and gathered His thoughts.

"Fine. I'll collect him myself."

Beelzebub sputtered, "My…my Lord that'z…I mean thiz with the utmozt rezpect but…that'z impozzible."1

"For me, perhaps," He said, a smirk playing on his lips, "But _Satan's_ name isn't anywhere on that treaty, is it?"

Beelzebub returned the smirk, "No, my Lord. I don't believe it iz."

Lucifer's smirk widened into a grin, and a faraway rumbling indicated that with a simple thought from his counterpart, Satan was already on the move.

They waited, Beelzebub anxiously watching Lucifer, who monitored the situation via his mental link with Satan. A minute passed. Two.

And then, with a single statement from a single little boy, the Universe was instantly, irrevocably changed.

* * *

When the Morning Star Fell, His body and soul split in two, with Satan assuming the bulk of Their collective physicality and strength. Millennia later, Lucifer freely gave another piece of Himself to His Son. That piece held the parts of Himself which still carried the remnants of Creation, the echoes of the star-maker he once was, enabling the boy to tap into not only Infernal, but Celestial power. The plan was for the boy's soul to develop beyond even Lucifer's own strength, while remaining an extension of Lucifer Himself. After the child brought about the War, Lucifer would rejoin that topside bit of his soul, overtake the body's consciousness, and finally work His Will directly upon the Earth, freed from the confines of Hell. And all Lucifer had to do was split his soul into three.

But even when separated by distance, those three pieces of Lucifer's single soul were both interconnected and interdependent. They each drew their power from the same well: Lucifer's core. That was the point of contact between themselves and Hell's perpetual fountain of demonic power.

When Adam made his proclamation, he did not quite understand that the soul he carried was a part of a larger whole, and made of three parts, not two. He did not realize that the choice he made in that moment would hold consequences beyond ridding the world of the vile demon he saw before him. He knew only that the power inside him was resonant with the power the creature before him held, a power so familiar that he couldn't help but feel its pull.

In an attempt to contain that power, he reversed the pull, gathered it into himself, and merged it with his own, just as his Demonic Father had intended. He merely solved the jigsaw, saw the places where the souls were broken and joined them together at their shared edges. He hadn't even meant to, it was sheer instinct. An impulse. A child's simple solution to an impossible problem.2

But in that moment, Adam did something else, something Lucifer hadn't anticipated, hadn't even considered as a possibility; he rejected his assigned nature and refused his destined purpose. Adam always got what he wanted if he was patient. And right then, what he wanted was twofold: to control his own destiny, and to make the Devil go away, for good. So he did. And in doing so, he unwittingly changed the way his own soul interacted with his supernatural power, both Celestial and Infernal. Which in turn severed the connection between the three entities drawing from Lucifer's central core.

In the span of a sentence, three irrevocable things Happened: As had always been the plan, Lucifer's vessel transferred its power, but not its consciousness, to its Earthly counterpart. Satan stopped existing altogether, his spiritual ties cut, his physical body banished from the material plane. And Adam Young's already unfathomably powerful soul became both whole, and wholly his own.

Adam spoke Truth into Existence. His words rang loud and present through All Worlds at once, the deafening echo shaking the Halls of Hell, effortlessly and unknowingly destroying everything Lucifer had ever been.

* * *

#### "You're not my dad, and you never were!"

Lucifer _shrieked_ , an unholy wail the likes of which Beelzebub had never heard. He crumpled to the floor in anguish, wracked with obvious pain. The Emperor of Hell was not supposed to be capable of pain, of any sort. Beelzebub watched in baffled, impotent horror as their Lord writhed on the filthy ground, contorted in spiritual and physical pain alike. In seconds, His sleek, muscular form withered. His flawless marble skin grew weathered and sickly. His dark hair drained of color, not to the Celestial platinum it had once been, but to a dull, lifeless gray. His glorious wings began shedding their luminous feathers, leaving behind threadbare patches as their remaining neighbors soured, turned a mottled, greenish-brown, the color of rotted flesh. The color of death.

The chamber walls shuddered, cycled through forms faster than the laws of matter could keep up with. Beelzebub summoned a hastily-constructed shield as a hail of rock and molten fire showered down around them. Through sheer force of will, they managed to transport the wailing, convulsing demon-lord out of the chamber and into the lift. They knew the mechanism would still work. Hell was built to last and would remain unchanged, sustained by its own power, and the collective Will of all demon-kind. But Lucifer's chambers were His alone, and He…he…no longer held the power to sustain his projections. The doors slid closed just as the room lost cohesion entirely and collapsed, sealing off the empty, featureless arch, little more than a ragged hole in the earth.

As the lift made its slow ascent, Lucifer's screams died down and he lay sobbing on the ground, helpless, powerless, the last remnants of his soul clinging to something resembling life. Beelzebub knelt beside him, overwhelmed by the sheer lack of power radiating from the demon lying at their feet. His once all-powerful presence had been reduced to less than that of a human, and it was still fading, draining from him second by second. But their steadfast loyalty overcame the terror and revulsion at the once-Lord of Darkness' rapid decline. Beelzebub placed a hand on Lucifer's shoulder and he clutched at it, whimpering in delirium, muttering in a confused, paper-thin voice.

"No…no, help…no…I am All, I am…Lord, help, I am Light…all shall bow…no, no, I shall rule all Worlds…help, where are my angels, servants of my Light, my Darkness…there is no Light…no…Dark…gone…all gone…"

Summoning up a feeling they'd believed was long-dead, Beelzebub stroked Lucifer's brittle, wiry hair and spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, a tone very nearly resembling kindness.

"Shhh. I am here my Lord. Don't be afraid. I'm here."

* * *

Beelzebub was at Lucifer's side at the very Beginning, not of the World, but of the Universe. Beelzebub had been among the First Fallen, the angels who stood with Lucifer at the start of His Rebellion. They were, and always had been, one of Lucifer's most loyal soldiers, a devotion beyond measure even now, after every humiliation and abuse, every setback and denial. Beelzebub believed in Hell's place in the wider Universe, embraced their role within it, even as they resented the life that role had forced them into. Their personal feelings on the matter were irrelevant; they chose a life at Lucifer's side, no matter the cost. Beelzebub did not think they were capable of love. Indeed, they questioned whether any demon truly was. But if such a thing was possible, their love for Lucifer was as devout and unwavering as an angel's love for God, no matter how much they also hated Him.

Beelzebub was at Lucifer's side during the Creation of His Son. In the Time Before, Beelzebub had been one of the many angels tasked with inventing the lower life-forms. They brought into being any number of little creatures, including the last creation before their Fall, the flies which now defined their essential being. So when Lucifer made His plan to create the Antichrist, He came directly to Beelzebub for help. They used their pre-Fall skills and knowledge to help breathe life into the vessel which would hold a vital part of Lucifer's soul, and incubate it into a being of unimaginable power.

It was fitting, then, that Beelzebub was at Lucifer's side at The End - when everything they had ever worked toward, everything they had ever believed in, fell apart in their hands.

* * *

The lift shook with its familiar, unsteady shudder, helped along by Lucifer's quivering sobs.

"…Baelsebul…My most faithful…My dearest friend…"

Beelzebub closed their eyes and bit back the scream that threatened to escape at the sound of their Celestial name. They knew the name, they were able to understand it. Lucifer had never taken Beelzebub's memories of Before, preferring that his Princes remembered the Heavens as he did. He believed the memory would motivate them, allow their resentment to keep their hatred for all things Holy intact. But knowing the name didn't shield Beelzebub from its impact. There was nothing to be done about that - aside from Lucifer, the inability to tolerate one's own Celestial name was hardwired into a demon's very being. So Beelzebub heard, and they understood, and it felt like their soul was trying to escape their corporation in every direction at once.

But now was not the time to join Lucifer in madness. With every ounce of strength, they managed to pull themselves together, though their flies buzzed wildly for a few seconds. But they didn't know how long they would be able to _keep_ it together. It wasn't merely their reflexive reaction to a Forbidden name which threatened their composure. It was that they knew Lucifer would _never_ have used that name, certainly not in such a casual manner, unless he no longer understood where, or when, he was.

"Y-yes, my Lord?"

"…You will help me…preserve our ways? Join me…against the human…usurpers?"

For the first time in their life, angelic or demonic, Beelzebub found themselves on the verge of tears.

"…I will. Of courze I will. Alwayz. My life iz yourz, Lord Lucifer."

"Good…that's good…with your help I shall…always be Her…most beloved…maintain…my purpose…my stars…I need…my stars…"

Lucifer whimpered softly, either too weak or too addled to continue speaking. Beelzebub set their flies to buzzing what they hoped was a comforting rhythm as they sat, lost and overwhelmed on the floor of a rickety lift, the fading light of the Morning Star weeping pitifully into their lap.

* * *

1\. The terms for Hell's existence were determined in the truce after the War in Heaven. The demonic denizens of Hell could come and go as they pleased. But Lucifer had been eternally banished from Heaven, and barred from ever physically manifesting on Earth. Hell was an eternal prison for not only the souls of the damned, but Lucifer's own. [Back]

2\. Adam might never have seen the possibility of this solution had he not been actively, if subconsciously, processing the broken state of the mated souls he'd observed only moments before. What's more, had he not enacted this solution, he might never have thought to then turn around and do the same for the angel and demon at his side.  
Much of the course of the Universe is dependent upon mere circumstance. Much of the course of each individual life is dependent upon the lives and choices of those around them. It is altogether unclear (daresay, ineffable) whether these aspects of existence are a bug or a feature.[Back]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning tags (highlight to view): implied minor character death, physical violence, semi-sympathetic villain portrayal, violent language describing metaphysical injury, whump


End file.
